Hobbits Across America
by xirtadar
Summary: [Slash] [SamFrodo] We're writing SamFrodo in all 50 states. Is it awful? You bet.
1. Tennessee

"My, my, Samwise, it sure is hot today," Frodo cooed as he sipped on his on his mint julep. He was wearing a gigantic hat, merrily festooned with all sorts of silk flowers, fake birds, and accompanying birds' nests and eggs. 

"Yes, August sure is a hot month," Sam replied. They were sitting on rocking chairs on their front porch. 

"August? I thought it was May. I dressed up for the Kentucky Derby for nothing?" 

"Kentucky Derby? That was months ago. And we live in Tennesee." 

"Look, Sam. Do you think I wore this hat for no reason?" 

"You often wear awful things for no reason. I just thought you were in one of those moods." 

"Moods? Are you calling me moody?" 

"No, Fro-Fro. You are the least moody person I know." 

"Really? Do you mean that, Samwise?" 

"Of course." 

"Now let's go to that horse race!" 

"There's a greyhound track a few miles up the highway. We can go to that." 

"Whatever, we can't let this fabulous hat go to waste. No let's get a-goin'!"

On the short, three-mile walk to the track — Frodo and Sam's car, the Frodo and Sam Mobile, was in the shop after Sam saw somebody brush the rear bumper in a freak accident at the Tennessee El Camino Convention — several birds attempted to nest in Frodo's hat. "Go away you awful birds go away!" he said in one breath with absolutely no commas as he attempted to bat away a pelican. "Oh, why is this happening in me?" 

"No idea," Sam spelunked. 

At the track, Frodo began to compulsively adjust his waistcoat, which Sam colloquially called a weskit. Its color reminded Sam of butterscotch pudding. "I think I'll make butterscotch pudding tonight," he sputtered aloud like a freight train. 

"You do that, honey," Frodo encouraged. "Now, can we put some money on a dog, or what?" Frodo resumed adjusting his waistcoat so that the cute clerk at the place-bets window would see. Frodo winked; the clerk closed the window. 

"Maybe you're so hot because you're wearing that stupid weskit." 

"Waistcoat, Sam. What is this, Merry Old Jolly Good Englandville?" 

"Let's just pick a dog. How does 'The Last Alliance of Elves and Men' sound to you?"

"I don't know. I kind of want a dog who sounds like a winner. What do you think of 'Pitzy?' "

"Sounds awful." 

"Well, who should we vote on?" 

"Bet?" 

"Yeah, whatever."

"I'm going to bet on 'Last Alliance of Elves and Men.' You can bet on Pitzy." 

"Fine, I'll vote on Pitz-ay," Frodo ridiculed. 

Four hours later, Sam had lost $40,000 and Frodo had won $19.99. "Honestly. Who bets 99 cents?" Sam stormed. 

"I do. That's who," Frodo retorted angrily. "Let's just get out of here before you lose any more money on that stupid Pitzy you keep voting on." 

"I'm not even going to bother correcting you." 

"Fine, don't. I don't care." 

"Just then a flock of seagulls decided to make it's home in Frodo's hat. Frodo reacted by swatting at them angrily until one bit his hand. Blood and feathers was flying everywhere.

Back at home, Frodo collapsed onto the chaise lounge in the living room. "Oh!" he gasped. "I'm in such pain!" 

"It's just a little scrape," Sam futzed. 

"Excuse me, but have you ever been attacked by a seagull? It was dreadful!" Frodo began to writhe around. "My beautiful, beautiful face!" he cried. "And also, my beautiful hat!" Frodo had eventually managed to get the seagulls to leave him alone, but they had made off with his hat in revenge. "And I had all that awful hat hair," he babbled. "Do you think you could drive me into town tomorrow? I want to stop at Grima Wormtongue's Bait, Tackle, and Milliner." 

"Okay," Sam pleasantly agreed. "I could use a few more lures." 

"When was the last time you went fishing?" Frodo asked. 

"Four summers ago." 

"So, if you never go fishing, why buy new lures?" 

"Duh," Sam drooped. "I never go fishing because I don't have any new lures." He was going to say something about also stopping at the pawn shop, but then he decided to go through the mail, which Frodo had neglected to sort that morning, choosing instead to put on a small fashion show, the byproducts of which were actually still littering the living room. In fact, Sam realized that he was standing on one of Frodo's polos. 

Sam left Frodo to writhe on the couch and went into the kitchen. The first envelope was from the gas company. "Bill," Sam droned. "Bill, bill, bill, bill, bill. Ah!" He gasped in joy, throwing all the mail but this one letter aside. 

"What?" Frodo called from the other room.

"You will never guess who's getting married!" Sam shouted back. 

"Is it Merry and Pippin? I knew they would be getting married. They've been talking about it for years." 

"No. It's our old cook, Gollum. He's marrying your best girlfriend in the world, Shelob." 

"WHAT!? I didn't even know they were dating. This is crazy." 

"I know. I thought she was a lesbian." 

"She's not a lesbian. She's just picky. Wow, Gollum and Shelob. I never saw that coming." 

"Did they meet at our place?" 

"They must have met at one of our fancy parties. I have to call her right now!" 

"I guess we have to go to the wedding now." 

"Not necessarily," Frodo corrected, shaking one long, slender, pale finger.

The next day, Frodo went drove up to the Dillard's in downtown Chattanooga, which was where Shelob and Gollum were registered. Sam, always the enterprising entrepreneur, opted out of going to Dillard's and into going to work. Sam worked at Grima Wormtongue's House of Tax Returns. Sam had graduated from Chuthers University the previous July, and now was the 49th most successful tax attorney in Tennessee. 

Frodo had whined at Sam a lot when he found out that Sam wasn't taking the newly repaired El Camino into town. "I don't want to go to Dillard's alone!" He cried. "With whom will I have sex in the dressing rooms?" 

"Frodo, I hate doing that. It's always so embarrassing to get arrested by store security." 

"Fine! I'll have sex in the dressing rooms by myself!" 

"Okay, you do that." 

"Fine, I will!" 

"Go ahead." 

"Okay!" 

"I'm glad we agree!" 

"Me too." Frodo was secretly furious. 

At the store, Frodo approached the woman in gift registry. "Hi," he said, taking off his aviators and sexily putting them on his head. 

"Hello, sir," said Hello My Name Is: Briana How May I Help You Today. "Welcome to Dillard's. How may I help you today?" 

"My friends are registered here." 

"Okay, sir, what are their names?" 

"Shelob and Gollum," Frodo nonchalanted. 

"And do they have last names?" 

"No." 

"So, just Shelob and Gollum." 

"You got it," Frodo confirmed. 

"All right, just a moment." She typed some shit in. "All right, their registry will print out in just a moment." Four hours later, Frodo had purchased a delightful eggplant denim jacket, four pairs of 2(x)ist bikini briefs (they were on sale), and a gold trimmed goblet that Shelob and Gollum had registered for. "Oh, that Shelob, she sure loves those goblets," Frodo thought to himself as he walked to the parking lot. Before he got to his car he was stopped by mall security. 

"Excuse me, sir," the tall, lean security guard with long brown hair said as he put his hand on Frodo's shoulder. 

"Can I help you?" Frodo asked innocently as he batted his eyelashes playfully. 

"I think I need to arrest you." 

"Oh yeah, what for?" 

"For being too hot, of course." Officer Elrond winked. 

"Oh, that kind of arrest." Frodo nodded knowledgably. "You know, I think you do. Do you have handcuffs?" 

"Sure do," Elrond drawled, reaching behind him and grabbing a pair of handcuffs. "Put your hands in front of you." 

"Oooh," Frodo cooed.

Security Chief Elrond led Frodo to a paddy wagon. "We're going to have sex in a paddy wagon!" Frodo exclaimed. "Oh, this is so hot. I'm totally dripping." 

"Well, don't drip on my pants," Elrond sternly warned. "They're rentals. I have to return them to the security office at the end of the day." 

"Rented uniforms are so hot," Frodo blathered.

"Sam!" Frodo called out as he stepped back into the house after a hard day's work having sex in a paddy wagon. "I'm home!" 

"Great!" Sam called back. "I'm in my office!" Frodo went to Sam's office, where he was filing some important papers in filing cabinets, all of which were full of files. "So, did you get something nice for Shelob and Gollum?" 

"Yeah, I got them an ashtray." 

"An ashtray?" 

"Or something, whatever. Listen, I totally cheated on you again." 

"You did?" Sam asked, not looking up from his papers. 

"Yeah, I did. And we totally didn't use condoms. Now I'm going to give you herpes." 

"That's great." 

"Yeah, I know."

"Are you sure you don't mind, shnookerkins?" Frodo cracked. 

"We've had this discussion before, Frodo. We're in an open relationship. I cheated on you too while you were out." 

"WHAT!? You? Sam, you never cheat." 

"What's the big deal? You left the toilet clogged so I had to call the plumber, and he was hot so we got it on." 

"I can't believe this. My world is turned upside down." 

"But we did use condoms." 

"Well, at least you did that." 

"Yeah." 

THE END.


	2. Montana

_Authors' note: We wrote this in a notebook last summer. Radaker typed most of it, and I don't think I edited it, so that's why it reads terribly. Anyway, it's bizarre as hell. Enjoy!_

"Roar!" the Gamgeesaurus bellowed at the top of his lungs.

"Oh, Sam. Stop showing off," Big Sue chided. The two dinosaurs were at the top of a bluff overlooking a lush valley teeming with delicious dinosaurs. Big Sue licked her lips in anticipation. Being a Tyrannosaurus Rex, she was always hungry. Sam, her gay best friend, was a vegetarian, and found her diet distasteful.

"Oh, look, I found a delicious bush to eat," Sam the Gamgeesaurus uttered suggestively.

"Sam, that's a shrub, not a bush."

"Whatever."

Just then, Merry and Pippin, two Velociraptors who just wouldn't leave Sam and Big Sue alone, showed up.

"What's up, guys?" Big Sue asked.

"Not much," They both answered in unison.

"So, why are you here?" Sam asked annoyedly.

"We wanted to see if Big Sue here had seen any good prospects," Merry chimed.

"There's a tempting-looking herd of ankylosauruses down there and some yummy little iguanadons," said Big Sue.

"I don't like ankylosauruses," said Pippin, "They always try to club me."

"Oh, Pip, you could use a good clubbing," said Merry.

"Shut up, Merry," retorted Pippin.

Sam rattled, "Well, we'd love to stay and chat, but we've got to run."

"But, Sam, I thought you weren't coming hunting with me. I thought you thought it was gross," Big Sue pen 15-ed.

"I guess I changed my mind. Bye, Merry! Bye, Pippin!" he nudged Big Sue with his extra-long sauropod neck (which he thought was one of his most attractive features).

"Bye, guys!" Merry and Pippin teetotled.

Down in the valley, Sam was disgusted. "These ankylosauruses are all female," he cried.

"I know, I know," Big Sue snorted. Her nickname was 'Big Snort' because she liked to swim in the Snortlantic Ocean.

"Wait, I think I see a male over there," Sam yelped pathetically.

"Go for it, stud," Big Sue encouraged.

Sam stealthily approached the slightly effeminate and svelte Tuojiangosaurus on the other side of the heard of Ankylosauruses. "What's your name, hot stuff?" he said sultrily.

"Frodon," the Tuojiangosaurus said coyly, blushing and batting his unnecessarily large eyelashes.

"That's a pretty name." Sam started putting on the moves. "What are you doing with a herd of ankylosauruses like these?"

"Well, my uncle Bilbodon wanted me to observe some females. He thinks it'll change me or something," Frodon answered.

"That's stupid. Why do you take shit like that from him?"

"Well, he's loaded, and when he finally dies I'll inherit everything. If only I could convince some large Tyrannosaurus to eat him."

"I may be able to help you. We can talk about it over dinner. Care to meet me at that shrub over there tonight at seven?" Sam was an expert at what he did, picking up unsuspecting males.

"I'll have to check my schedule."

"What?"

"Just kidding. I'll be there, you dreamboat." Frodo winked.

"What did you bring along that female Tyranny for?" Frodon asked accusingly as he munched on some delicious bush.

"This is my friend," said Sam, "her name is Big Sue, but everyone calls her Big Snort."

"What are you talking about? I can't believe you brought this female on our date!"

"I thought you wanted me to get rid of your uncle for you," said Big Snort.

"That's true," said Frodon, "So what's the plan?"

"I'll eat your uncle," said Sue.

"Then we'll have mad hot dino-sex," said Sam.

"Sounds good to me," Frodon said encouragingly.

"Wait, how will I find your uncle?"

"He's probably in his little cave, or 'burrow' as he calls it," Frodon replied, "He's really old and really short. Just look for the sign that says 'Bag End' and you'll find it."

"Okay!" Big Sue shouted as she wandered off to find the elderly Tuojiangosaurus.

"So…" Sam said awkwardly.

"Yeah," Frodon said, busily munching bush.

Just then, out from behind a patch of dense bamboo, Merry and Pippin popped out.

"Eek! Velocoraptors!" Frodon eeked.

"So," Pippin said menacingly, "A delicious Tuojiangosaurus with only this measly Gamgeesaurus to protect him." The two velociraptors started circling around the two lovebirds.

"You guys," Sam's voice sounded scared. "Seriously, cut it out. Big Sue is going to be back any minute. She is gonna use you guys as toothpicks if you don't leave us alone."

"I don't see Big Sue anywhere. Do you see her, Pippin?" Merry taunted.

"No, I don't see her anywhere, Merry. I say we eat them," Pippin teased.

"I agree," Merry agreed.

They began circling in tighter. Frodo lowered his head, getting ready to charge. He had a bit of doubt whether his newly polished, petite horn could even inflict any damage. Little did Frodon know, but Sam had a secret weapon: Like all Gamgeesauruses, he was in possession of a little thing of mace.

"Gotcha!" Sam cried, liberally dousing Merry and Pippin with nasty goo.

"My eyes!" shellacked Merry, "my beautiful eyes!"

"My cummerbund!" Pippin chortled, "My sensational cummerbund!" They both retreated into the Mesozoic forests of ancient Montana.

"My hero!" Frodon squealed. "Those awful raptors were going to eat us, and steal our eggs."

"But we don't have any eggs."

"Sure we do. You just haven't fertilized them yet." Frodon gestured at his swollen egg sac.

"What kind of dinosaur are you?" Sam asked.

"A Tuojiangosaurus!"

"Darling, that's not your egg sack, that's your testicles."

"Testi-what?"

"Never mind, let's get to fertilizing!"

"Yee ha!" squealed Frodon as the husky Gamgeesaurus mounted him from behind. Their scales rubbed together sensuously as Sam fiddled about.

"Down with the bedsheets," Sam snickered, "up with your nightshirt."

"But I'm not wearing a nightshirt," Frodon tingled.

"It's just an expression." Just then, Frodon and Sam heard the thumping noise of dino feet hitting the Earth. "What's that?" Sam asked.

"It's probably just your dry, reptilian cock slamming into my fun hole," Frodo reassured. Suddenly, Big Sue appeared from out of a clearing of brush.

"Okay, I ate your uncle. He didn't put up much of a … woah! Way to go, Sam!"

Sam and Frodon both shrieked and rolled off of each other.

"Excuse me, Sue, but we're a little busy here," Sam barked.

"Well, sorry," said Sue.

"You should be," said Frodon. They looked at each other intently.

"Nice egg sac," said Sue complimentarily.

"It's not an egg sack," pleaded Sam, "it's his testicles."

"No, Sam. It's an egg sack if I've ever seen one."

Sam sputtered, "Does that make Frodon a … ?"

Sue shouted, "That's right, a female!"

Sam quickly pulled out of Frodon's anus/vagina. "Eww!" he shouted.

"It's not true," shrieked Frodo. "I'm actually a hermaphrodite."

"Hermaphra-what?" said Sam.

"Look, Sam. It's pretty simple. I have a penis, and I also have an egg-sack," Frodo chortled.

"Then where are your testicles?" Sam guffawed.

"I don't know. I guess they haven't descended or they're ovaries or something," Frodo served. "The important thing is that my eggs are now fertilized and in a few weeks we'll have a nice litter of Frodon-Sams running around."

"AHHH!" Sam screamed.

"I could always eat them for you," Big Sue contributed, licking her chops.

"That won't be necessary," Frodon peered. "Our species is well-known for being excellent mothers. Oh, I just can't wait to squeeze egg after egg after egg out of my quivering loins, and then sit on the nest while my beautiful Frodonsamosaurs quicken inside."

"You guys are really grossing me out," said Big Sue. "I'm outta here." Sue stomped away.

"Oh, Sam! I can't wait to begin our family."

"Well, I sure can."

"Excuse me?"

"That's right. I'm not happy you've tricked me into fertilizing your eggs."

"I didn't trick you!"

"Yes, you did. I'm leaving."

"But my species mates for life!" Frodon cried.

"Tell it to someone who cares, sister. I'm outtie."

Frodon let out a horrible wail. His screams could be heard throughout the thick jungles of Montana. A gaggle of pterodactyls took flight from a banyan tree, cawing their disapproval.

"What now?" Sam asked the screaming quivering Frodon in front of him.

"You can't leave. You just can't," Frodon replied, "I can't be a single mom. It will ruin my image."

"Can't you just get it 'taken care of?' " Big Sue said reemerging from some shrubs, insisting that Frodon get an abortion.

"Where am I going to find a dinosaur abortionist?" Frodon said, pausing for effect, "in Montana?"

Sam sniffed a little, "Big Sue, you know what to do."

And in one bite, Big Sue devoured Frodon, egg sack and all. "Oh, Sam. You are the worst vegetarian I know," she said.

"Tell me about it," the Gamgeesaurus shrugged.

THE END


	3. Delaware

_I think we finally discovered how to make functioning chapter breaks._

Frodo daintily sipped on his tea in the parlor of his wealthy uncle's Wilmington home. His pinky was, of course, raised ever so delicately. Laid on the table in front of him was the daily newspaper. Bilbo had left it for him. Frodo glanced at it, looking at the ads and skipping the news of the war that seemed inevitable. In Philadelphia important things were happening, things that would change not only Frodo's life, but the entire world. Frodo put down his china teacup on its saucer and picked up the paper. He walked over to the corner of the parlor where his canary, Ronaldo, lived in a gilt birdcage Bilbo had received as a gift from an important lawyer in Boston.

He placed the paper at the bottom of the cage and began to talk to his canary, "Hello, Ronaldo. How is my pretty little bird doing today?"

Ronaldo just stared at him blankly, cocking his head to one side slightly.

"Oh, I know. I'm not doing too well either."

"Frodo?" a loud booming voice behind him bellowed, "Are you talking to that silly little bird again?"

"He likes it, Bilbo," Frodo answered, turning around and facing his uncle. Bilbo always wore the drabbest outfits, Frodo thought. Some colorful silks would really do him well.

'Frodo, today is a very important day."

"Oh yeah, what's so special about July 4, 1776?"

"We have just received news on horseback from Philadelphia that a Declaration of Independence has been signed."

"Is that a good thing?" Frodo asked blankly.

"No, it's terrible. I work for the British, you dolt."

"Look, Bilbo, I don't care what you do for a living, as long as I keep getting to smoke these delightful cigarettes, drink this tasty tea, wear these colorful silks, and continue to receive all of these other luxuries I have been accustomed to."

"That's great, Frodo, but if you like those things you had better get used to keeping up with current events. Anyway, I'm off to the office. I'm going to have to maneuver quickly if we're going to survive this thing."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Frodo called after him. He picked up a little bell and rang it. Frodo's personal manservant, Pippin, quickly scuttled into the parlor.

"Yes, Frodo?"

"I'm bored. Entertain me," Frodo commanded.

"Would you like me to sing you a song?"

"Yes please!" Frodo clapped with glee.

"This song is about my home, on Brandywine Creek in Pennsylvania."

"Oh, I hate Pennsylvania. They think they're such big shots over there. I don't want to hear this song anymore. Just dance for me like you normally do."

Just then Bilbo's butler entered the room with a calling card on a silver tray. "Mr. Baggins, a Mr. Samwise Gamgee from Philadelphia is here to call upon you," he drawled.

"Ooh, Philadelphia, how cosmopolitan," Frodo exhaled. "I just love people from Philadelphia."

"But!" Pippin started, but knew better than to correct Frodo.

The butler, a man named Burrows, continued, "He is waiting for you in the library."

Frodo turned around and started toward his bedroom. "Tell him I will be just one moment. I must ready myself," he called behind him. Butler Burrows conveyed his message to Sam, who had already occupied himself with a copy of "Plants and Flowers of the Orient: An Illustrated Edition."

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Frodo was intrigued by that which he saw in the library, and to call Samwise Gamgee a "that" is quite unfitting, because Samwise was no "that" if Frodo Baggins had even seen one. Nay, he was rather a "who." With his dark blonde locks peeking out from under a tri-cornered cap and a musket under one arm, Samwise was the perfect picture of a minuteman.

"Mr. Gamgee, I presume?" Frodo said softly, not wishing to interrupt the handsome stranger.

"Mr. Baggins!" Gamgee shrieked, setting the book down on the crushed velvet ottoman in the center of the great library of Bag End. "I beg your pardon, sir. I was only pursuing a natural curiosity; I would kindly have requested to borrow your reading materials but you see, these are dire times, and I've been ever so occupied with the heavy matters of the day as of late."

Frodo stared at the soldier's broad chest, which even under a coat and shirt (and casket strap) seemed expansive and, verily, inviting to Frodo. "Oh," he said warmly. "Well, never mind. You pardon is granted."

"I thank you, sir," Gamgee said, bowing a little.

"No need for such formality!" Frodo cried, throwing his hands into the air. His shirt cuffs came down from under his jacket sleeves in voluptuous ruffles of finely-woven cotton, and these seemed to jump when he gesticulated, which Frodo did quite often and with a degree of abandon one might call "wild" or perhaps "reckless."

"It's on an urgent matter I've come," Sam continued, straightening his posture. "You see, it's about His Majesty."

"The King? Yes, I'm quite well aware of this Declaration. Make no mistake, I am perfectly neutral in this matter. I care little for the sovereign or his wills."

Frodo had meant that he posed no interest or inquiry into the nature of the conflict between the colonies and the mainland, but Sam surely took no heed to these implications and assumed, rather foolishly, that Frodo was inclined to dislike the king, and would make an easy case for conversion to the colonialist cause.

Frodo was still confused as to the soldier's purpose in his visit. "Why exactly are you here? Surely it wasn't solely to deliver the news from Philadelphia? You must have known that I would have received it from my uncle."

"Well, my motives in this visit are not entirely pure."

"No? Pray tell me what they are lest you forget again and begin rambling about the king."

"I have admired you from afar, Frodo: your dainty fingers, your sleek physique, and most importantly your ebony hair that cascades from your head like the Raymondskill Falls that I spent many a day at in my childhood." Sam beamed as he told Frodo this.

"Oh, you must cease such flattery; you're making me blush." Frodo picked up a fan from the credenza and ever so delicately used it to cool himself.

"I am off to fight in what many expect to be a short war, with the side of the colonies, our side, easily quashed. I do not want to leave for the battlefield without someone to come back to."

"And?"

"And I want that person to be you, Frodo."

"Oh, Sam! This is like some sort of fantasy," Frodo sputtered out, now practically beating the air with his fan.

"This is no fantasy, Frodo. These are dire times. All I ask for is a lock of your hair."

"My hair?"

"Yes, so that I may have a piece of you close to my heart at all times."

"But my hair is one of my best attributes. You said so yourself." Frodo was beginning to whine. "And now you want me to cut it off."

"Just one lock, maybe an inch."

"Oh, I thought 'lock' meant 'all.' I'm sorry, of course you can have an inch. I just hope it doesn't ruin my whole hairdo. This doesn't come easily, you know." Frodo picked up the little bell he had used to call Pippin earlier and rang it again.

Pippin came scuttling up behind them like a hermit crab without its shell. "Yes, sir, Mr. Frodo, sir?" Pippin asked, panting.

"Fetch me a pair of scissors," Frodo commanded haughtily.

Pippin quickly scuttled away, almost knocking down a bust on his way out. He quickly returned with a pair of gold-handled scissors on a silver tray. "Here you are, Mr. Frodo. Is there anything else you will be needing this very moment?"

Frodo looked at him with utter disgust. "No there is not, now rid us of your presence." Frodo picked up the scissors and brought it up to the back of his head, where he gently tugged at his hair before he used the scissors to cut off a piece. He took a pink silk ribbon out of his pocket (he always made a point of keeping ribbons in his pocket "just in case") and tied the lock with it. He handed it to Sam and in a low husky voice said, "Here, take this and be off to the battlefield. I do not want to keep you any longer from the cause of liberty."

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

A few weeks later, Frodo was taking his tea in the parlour with Bilbo whilst working on his needlepoint. Bilbo finished his honeyed cake and got up to amble into the kitchen. He glanced over Frodo's shoulder to see what his nephew was embroidering.

"Chastity is a Virtue?" he asked as the teacup clattered on his tray.

"It's going to be a pillow," Frodo nodded in agreement.

"Whatever," Bilbo said, continuing on to the kitchen. Just then, the door chimed and there came a knock.

"Pippin!" Frodo bellowed, tucking his flask under his thighs. It was unrespectable to drink in the comely light of noon. Frodo heard Pippin clamber toward the door.

"Mr. Frodo?" he asked succinctly, entering the parlour. "A messenger here to see you."

"I'll receive him in here, Pip, thank you," Frodo said slowly, fluffing his hair for maximum effect.

Frodo heard heavy footsteps approaching, and turned to see a boy of naught but 15 years of age. He looked travel-weary, as if he were tired to the very marrow of his bones.

"Mr. Frodo, I've come on urgent notice from the battlefield."

Frodo yawned. "Oh, there's been a battle, has there?" Frodo inspected the youth harder. His blonde hair reminded him of Sam, but this lad's gait was too light, and not nearly strident enough to match that of his would-be officer and lover.

"Yes, sir, a grave battle," Pippin interjected. "The colonies have lost the City of New York!"

"Pippin, I'll ring your bell when I wish for you to speak." Pippin lowered his head, dejected. "You're dismissed." Pippin shuffled off.

"Go on," Frodo urged the messenger.

"It's about Captain Gamgee."

"Been promoted, has he?"

"Yes sir," said the boy. "Post-humously."

"Is that quite honorable?"

"Well, that's one way of looking at it."

"Well, when can expect to be hearing from him?"

"I don't think you understand me, sir. He is dead."

"Dead? Oh! This is terrible tidings!"

"But a hero's death for sure."

"In Brooklyn?" Frodo asked doubtfully. After shedding a few tears he looked up at the pretty young thing in front of him, "What's your name, messenger?"

"Meriodoc Brandybuck, sir."

"Hmm, Merry ... I can call you, Merry, yes?" Frodo asked, not really caring.

"Well, actually, I would prefer if..."

"Merry," Frodo cut him off. "I need some comforting."

"What do you mean?"

"I think you know what I mean." Frodo winked at him suggestively.

"Sir! If you're suggesting what I think you're suggesting..."

"Yes?" Frodo said, unbuttoning his cravat while making little kissy lips.

"Then I'm totally into that!" Merry said, shucking his breeches with wild abandon.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

After several hours of passionate lovemaking Frodo sent Merry back to the battlefield or wherever he came from never to hear from him again. 'Well, now what?' Frodo thought adjusting his spatter dashes. 'If I don't have a hot officer boyfriend to wait for, what is the point of living in Revolutionary Delaware?'

"Bilbo!" Frodo cried, grabbing his wide-brimmed hat and purple velvet cloak from the hat and coat rack in the front hall of the steely manse that was Bag End. "I'm off to market!"

"Good god, boy," Bilbo smarted, appearing from behind the corner that connected the kitchen to the front hall. "Whatever for?"

"Not to pick up tricks or anything," Frodo replied.

"A trick? What sort of devilry are you about now, boy?"

"I shan't be back in more than an hour. Farewell, uncle."

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Frodo walked down the main road of town, sniffing the uncommon stench of the public.

Wilmington had a sizeable plebian class, and Frodo thought they smelled a bit like livestock combined with curdled milk. "That reminds me," Frodo said to an ugly old hag on the side of the road. "I should make Pippin milk the cows."

He stumbled into the Twig and Berries, the town's premier drinking establishment for men of a certain type. To Frodo's surprise, it was full of British officers. "Hello hello!" one of them cried at him like a bit of rough trade. "Wot do we 'ave 'ere?"

"Oh my!" Frodo exclaimed, "There are so many hot sexy British officers here."

"There sure are!" exclaimed the same drunken brute.

"What's your name, stud?" Frodo asked.

"Me name's Aragorn."

"Where you from, Aragorn?"

"Bristol." Aragorn grinned, revealing a mouth with only about six teeth, and those six teeth all seemed to be pointing in different directions.

"Anyway, I'm going to go talk to that other guy over there," Frodo said, approaching a very tall officer with long brown hair. Aragorn had already stopped paying attention though.

"Do you want to buy me a drink?" Frodo asked coyly.

"Sure," said the man, his British accent a bit more refined than Aragorn's, "What will you be having then?"

"Madeira!" Frodo suggested.

"Barkeep, one Madeira for this fine-looking gentleman over here."

"Oh, please stop," Frodo flirted. "What's your name?"

"Lieutenant Boromir, at your service," Boromir said, removing his hat and bowing slightly to Frodo.

"Oh, a lieutenant. How wonderful. My name's Frodo."

"Where are you from, Frodo?"

"Why here in Wilmington, of course."

"Oh, you're not one of those bloody rebel spies are you?"

"No, of course not. I'm just looking for a good time like everyone else in the Twig & Berries."

The bartender brought Frodo his glass of Madeira. Frodo downed it in one gulp. "Mmm ... That was delicious."

"Do you want to come up to my room and taste something really delicious, Frodo?"

"Yes, of course." Frodo and Boromir went up the stairs to his room at the inn.

"Okay, yonder good fellow," Frodo said seductively, removing his waistcoat and lavender shirtsleeves. "Wouldst thou pleasure me like I've never been pleasured before but ought to be?"

"Nay," said Boromir. "You're under arrest."

"Crickey!" Frodo crowed, covering his perky and pertinent nipples in shame. "What for, kind sir?"

"Sodomy," Boromir said, "which implicates you as a rebel spy."

"I'm not a spy!" Frodo cried. "I'm merely a horny bugger! Please, sir, take pity on me. My lover was killed in the Battle of Long Island earlier this week, and I pray beseech you, take pity on this battered and worn heart."

"No, I don't think I shall," Boromir said kindly. "I'll take you to the stocks, though, and let the townspeople judge you. This lover of yours, was he a British officer?"

"No," Frodo said. "He fought under General Washington."

"So, conspiring with a rebel, eh?"

"No! I don't give a crap about the war! I like the king or the duke or whoever makes my life easier. But for the love of dickens, officer, don't take me to the stocks ... unless it's an erotic thing," Frodo quickly added.

"Hmmm..." Boromir thought for a moment. "A bugger looking to make good. Boy, I think I've got the perfect task to set for your sorry hide."

"Oh no! What wouldst though have me do?"

"Well, we British are actually in dire need of your assistance."

"I can't lift a musket to save my life!" Frodo pleaded. The last time he had touched a gun was at his uncle's hunting lodge in Roanoke. He was taking it out of the rack and broke a nail. It was very traumatizing.

"Oh, don't you worry your curly little head. I have nothing of that sort in mind. I have a much more devious plan for your hot little behind."

"Oh, stop." Frodo blushed.

"We need you to go to Trenton."

"Ew! New Jersey? I wouldn't be caught dead there!"

"Well, you'll be caught dead here if you refuse."

"Ah, I see. So what wouldst thou have me do in New Jersey?" Frodo shuddered.

"General George Washington has somehow managed to beat our troops back near Trenton. We need you to go there and seduce him."

"Seduce George Washington?"

"Yes, and then come back and tell us all of his secrets."

"I didn't think he swung that way. I mean, he's got that sexy wife, Martha or something."

"We have reports to the contrary, now be off with you. If we don't hear back from you before the end of the year I will personally find you and slice off your genitals."

"Eeep!" shrieked Frodo, scurrying away cupping the family jewels.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Frodo!" Bilbo cried from his study. "What in the name of the Holy Father have you gotten up to now?" Frodo stopped in front of the door to his uncle's study, where the older man was diligently working on his memoirs.

"Nothing, Uncle," Frodo said shiftily.

"Don't 'nothing' with me," Bilbo said incredulously. "You've been scurrying around all day."

"Aye," Frodo confirmed, sliding the pack he was putting together behind a large potted palm in the front hall of Bag End.

"Whatever for, boy?" Bilbo got up and approached his nephew. "Are you planning on running away?"

"Aye," Frodo said glumly, nodding. "Of a sort."

"Whereabouts, lad?"

"To New Jersey."

"Ew!" Bilbo cried.

"I know," Frodo sniffed.

"Whereabouts in New Jersey wouldst thou go?"

"To the camp of General Washington."

Bilbo's eyes became red, and he flew into a murderous rage. "Thou art no nephew of mine!" he cried, smacking Frodo. "Heathenish traitor!"

"It's not like that," Frodo pleaded, widening his lashes and batting them to-and-fro like a wanton harlot. "I'm to be a double-agent."

"So," Bilbo said. "Working for the motherland, are we?"

"Indeed."

"In that case, my child—" Bilbo paused to salute his war-faring nephew. "God-speed. And God save the king!"

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Bilbo arranged for Frodo to be taken to New Jersey in one of his carriages. When he was near Trenton he had to leave the carriage behind and walk on foot to George Washington's camp.

By the time he neared the camp he was all sweaty and disheveled. "Oh, piffle! How am I going to seduce George Washington looking like this?" Frodo said to the seemingly empty road.

"Seducing George Washington, are we?" said a voice behind a rock.

"Yes!" Frodo shouted back to a heavily ornamented woman who was revealing herself.

"Well," said the woman, "join the club."

"What's your name, you flimsy harlot?" Frodo asked her.

"My name is Trixie Malloy, and for your information I am a very highly paid prostitute, not some common street harlot."

"Whatever, what makes you think you can seduce George Washington better than me?"

"Well, for one, I'm not covered in sweat and road dust. Also, I think he'll appreciate my humongous bosom."

"Look, I'm sure they're all saggy once your corset is off. Besides, how can he resist these perky little buns?" Frodo pointed to his little butt, which was looking particularly perky today.

"Look, you little snot. I say we make it interesting."

"Yeah, how?"

"Let's make a wager: The first of us to sleep with George Washington has to do something really embarrassing."

"Like what?"

"I don't know, I can't think of anything. Can you?"

"Hmm ... Let me think. I'm sure I'll come up with something good." Frodo sat there pondering for a moment.

"Well?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Frodo marched into that camp feeling very much large and in charge. He was getting ever so close to getting laid, getting the respect of the British army, and getting to give a sleazy woman of the night (although Frodo had met her in midafternoon) a makeover. He wandered up to the first person he saw, a young boy shining a musket while he sat miserably on a tree stump.

"Good day kind young fellow," Frodo demurred. "And pray tell what sort of day has it been for the infantry?"

"Couldn't say," said the boy. "I just shine the muskets. It's them officers you want to speak to."

"What is your name, boy?"

"Johnny Ragtoes."

"Well, Johnny, my name is Freddy Bolger, of Providence, and I've come on urgent business. I must see the general at once."

"The general? He doesn't see nobody, sir, from Providence or not."

"Oh, he'll see me. I've come with special news from the British. I'm a spy. A double agent, if you will."

"Aye aye! Johnny squeaked, running to alert his superior officer.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

"So," said George Washington awkwardly as leaned over a very naked Frodo to put back in his wooden teeth. "Tell me about yourself."

"What's to tell?" Frodo replied itching his testicles. "Say, you don't have the syph, do you? That seems to be going around these days."

"Basic stuff," George Washington craftily evaded. "Like where are you from?"

"Delaware."

"Is that nice?"

"Not particularly. There's a lot of geese there."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." George and Frodo looked at each other.

"So, I'd probably meet with some of my lieutenants or something." George Washington stood up and put on his powdered wig. He also tried to put on his pantaloons, but he kind of stumbled trying to get his left foot through the trouser leg.

"So, you'll call me?"

"I'll send you a telegram or something. I think it's really best that Martha — I mean, anyone — not find out about this."

"But George!" Frodo cried.

"It's okay, Frodo, we'll always have New Jersey."

"Ugh, you can have New Jersey. I just want your loving."

"Sorry, babes," George Washington snapped. "I gots to be on my way. Toodles."

"Oh!" Frodo wailed to the rapidly exiting George Washington, "at least I won that awful bet with that awful woman." He pulled back on his various layers of discarded clothing. Once dressed he exited the tent and made his way to the outskirts of the camp where he found Trixie Malloy fellating a private. "Trixie!" he shouted, averting his eyes from the actual act.

"Can't you see that I'm busy getting to the top?" Trixie shot back.

"Look, the bet's over. It's makeover time."

"Oh shit. Well, let me finish my work here," she responded.

Just then the loud chirping of the New Jersey swamps was broken by musket shot. A murder of crows ascended from a dead oak. More shots were fired, and then the loud thunderous boom of a cannon.

Chaos soon surrounded Frodo, who was busy finding some sort of shelter. "Oh no! Not a battle! And I was having such a good hair day — well, wig day I guess," he grumbled to himself. Trixie was nowhere to be seen.

He found a big boulder and hid behind it. As the British overtook his position he curled into the fetal position, humming "Minuet in D" loudly to try and forget the battle around him. He felt a sudden bayonet jab at his shoulder. It was Boromir.

"Crikey!" Frodo yelped, massaging the fresh wound in his shoulder. "This is my best shirt! I mean tunic! I mean..."

"Silence!" Boromir commanded. "Cease this senseless prattle. Tell me, have you accomplished that which we sent you here to do? The service in the name of his Majesty and the Crown? Your duty to the empire?"

"If you mean, didst I have a sexual liaison with General Washington, aye," Frodo confirmed.

"How did it go?"

"How kind of you to ask!" Frodo gushed, fawning. "To be honest, it was mediocre. He didn't really put his all into it. Although I will admit, there is something attractive about the glamour of talking my way into the bed of the leader of the, um, rebel forces."

"No, you twit!" Boromir said, jabbing Frodo with his bayonet a second time. "I mean, what secrets have you learned about the general? What secret plots are the enemies of the Crown conspiring to enact?"

"Uh," Frodo said like an idiot. "Well, we didn't really discuss that. You know how it is, it was mostly panting, very little to do with business."

"You mean to tell me the British army sent you to New Jersey to engage in fornication with George Washington, and you failed to learn anything of import?"

"Well..." Frodo did not really want to admit that his visit to Washington's bed had been, at best, a failure, so he decided he had better make something up. "Ah, it's coming to me! I did learn something, something that will be of great use to His Majesty."

Boromir tapped his foot impatiently. "And that would be ... ?"

"Oh, just kill me now. I have nothing." Frodo batted his eyelashes foolishly. "I'm just a slut from Delaware."

"Well," Boromir sassed, "I must admit, I am a bit disappointed. Let's say you suck off me and my entire company and call it even?"

"Sounds like a deal!" Frodo grinned.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Things were going great for Bilbo. The British blockade had guaranteed that he was the only supplier of imported handkerchiefs in all of Delaware and his girlfriend turned out not to be pregnant after all, just really really late. That's all Bilbo needed was another bastard child begging for pennies on the Wilmington wharf.

"Bilbo!" Frodo shouted, opening wide the doors to his study.

"Oh, you're back." Bilbo said, barely glancing up from his important papers. "How was New Jersey?"

"Eh. It was okay. How are things here in Delaware?"

"Oh, they're pretty great. Things have been pretty quiet here without you."

"Yes, I suppose they would be. I'm so sick of this war. It's getting boring. Will it ever end?"

"I have a feeling it will end very soon."

"God, I hope so, this premise is really getting stale."

"I couldn't agree more."

THE END


	4. Kentucky

Frodo skipped gaily towards the Bowling Green, Kentucky Interplanetary Spaceport. He was wearing a jumper made primarily of silver and gold lamé interspersed with isosceles triangles of different neon polyesters. "Sam, do you like my space-traveling outfit?" Frodo crooned, sticking his neck out pathetically and exposing the tattoo of unicorn on his right clavicle.

Sam looked over at his ridiculous companion. "Frodo, you look like something out of one of those horrible science fiction movies from the 1980s. Are those shoulder pads?" Sam was wearing much more sensible clothing: an olive green polo shirt with denim overalls, and Birkenstocks.

"Yes, Sam. As a matter of fact they are. Is there something wrong with that? Am I too much man for you now?" Frodo started sashaying with his shoulders as he said that.

"Look, let's just get on this spaceship. I can't wait to get to our resort on Deinonychus VII. It's going to be so nice to get away from the city for a while."

By 'the city' Sam meant Yonkers. Sam and Frodo lived in a small condo which was in the latest fashionable neighborhood for men of their persuasion to live.

"I don't understand why we can't just beam to Dino-cock-us 6 like we beamed to Kentucky. This whole spaceship thing seems so superfluous," Frodo uttered without pausing in between words.

"First of all, it's Deinonychus VII. And we can't 'beam' there because it's too far away. Also, who calls it 'beaming' anymore? Most people call it transporting."

"Whatever. How long is this little cruise going to take?"

"It takes four days. Quarters are pretty cramped, so you have to promise to do your best not to get on my nerves. Okay, Mr. Frodo? Are you even listening?"

"Sorry, I was reading this brochure for liposuction. Did you know they can beam it right out of you for four easy payments of $29.99? Amazing! Maybe you should consider it. I think you gained some weight after that Christmas dinner my cousin Folco threw."

"Frodo, you have to listen. Nobody's getting any liposuction, not me, not you, not your cousin Folco. We're going on vacation, and everyone knows you lose weight when you're on vacation. Besides, I think this extra weight looks kind of good on me."

"Are you serious, Sam? Extra weight looks good on nobody. Not no one, no how. Oh, look, we're here at the spaceport," Frodo announced, flipping back his feathered locks.

It was true, they had reached the gate of the spaceport. A big sign read, "Welcome to the Bowling Green, Kentucky Interplanetary Spaceport Y'all!" over a map of Kentucky.

"Sam, can I ask you a question?" Frodo asked.

"Proceed," Sam answered impatiently.

"Why is the Interplanetary Spaceport located in Bowling Green, Kentucky?"

"Well, it's very simple. I once read an historical article about it. In 2234 when they decided to centralize all of the spaceports into one large spaceport they had a big fight over where it would be located. The only fair solution, a committee of idiotic politicians decided, was to have a raffle. Every city in the world put their name into this raffle and a computer picked one at random. For some reason, Bowling Green, Kentucky was the winner."

"Oh, I guess that makes a lot of sense."

"Not really, if you ask me."

"No one's asking you, Sam. Now let's find our ship. Oh, look, it's over there." Frodo pointed to a shiny saucer-shaped ship to their left. There was a desk in front of it with a ticket agent at it. The electronic sign over the desk said "Deinonychus VII."

Frodo and Sam had already checked in online so they were able to bypass the inordinately long line for the ticket agent (three people and a poodle) and board the ship directly. They quickly found their quarters. Frodo sighed loudly.

"What?" Sam said as he turned around, "Is it not what you expected?"

"It's so small!" Frodo announced. "It must be only two meters squared!"

Sam looked puzzled. "Meters? Have you been reading those history books again? Nobody's used the metric system in over 100 years."

"Look, I can't keep up with all of these newfangled changes. Are we really expected to stay in here for four days? This will be worse than that time I was arrested for prostitution and had to spend a night in the big house!"

"You never told me about that!"

"Yes, and I never will." 

"Oh, Jesus," Sam sighed. 

"What? _You're_ one to talk, Sam. Jesus was defeated by the Space Vikings over half a century ago. Now it's illegal to say his name." 

"Not in space." 

"We haven't left space dock yet," Frodo observed. 

"Oh yeah. Well, I promise not to use 'Jesus' if you tell me your prostitution story." 

"Look, Sam, it was a few years back, I was in college, and I was dating Ronaldo. Remember him? You knocked out three of his teeth?" 

"Yeah, I remember." 

"Well, it's part of a chapter of my life that doesn't make me happy to reminisce about. I'm with you now, and that is all that matters." 

"Are we really going to have this conversation again?" 

"Yes." 

"No way, Jose. Tell me about your days as a ho!" 

"Never!" Frodo began to bat at Sam with his small, girlish hands. "Ahh!" he screeched. 

"What?" 

"You made me chip my green nail polish!" 

"Sorry." 

"You'd better be!" Just then, the holo-door bell-replicator buzzed. Sam and Frodo both froze. 

"Come in!" they chimed in unison. 

"Hello, gentlemen," a diminunative little fellow rang. "I'm your ship's purser, here to welcome you to first class." 

"_This_ is first class?" Frodo guffawed. "Shit, what does steerage look like?" 

"Look, don't get sassy with me," said the purser. "This flight is two tickets away from being cancelled. It's not like Denennyfuckus II is a swinging joint destination or anything." 

"That's not the name of the planet," Sam bitched. 

"Look, I don't care what it is." The purser perked up: "Call me if you need anything!" 

"What did you say your name was?" Frodo asked. 

"Pippin."

"Hey, Pippin?" Frodo hey-pippined. "Would you care to join us in a hot sticky threesome?" 

Sam gasped in surprise. 

Pippin replied confidently, "Oh, I'm totally in. You two are totally hot, and what else is there to do on this slave ship? I mean, come on!" 

Frodo looked at him expectantly. 

Pippin looked back at him, "Oh, you mean right now? Can't, honey — I've gotta meet all the other sexy couples on this here ship. Look, you two are totally my faves, so I'll be back here as soon as I can. Is that all right?" 

"Splendid!" explicated Frodo. Sam was just standing there slack-jawed. Pippin flipped his curls seductively and left, slamming the door behind him. 

Sam stood up, throwing Frodo's needlepoint off of his lap. "WHAT DID YOU DO THAT FOR?" he shouted. 

"Shhh! That hottie'll hear you," Frodo shushed. 

"Frankly, I don't care if he does." 

"Look, I'm trying to spice up our love life. I think it needs some spicing up. Don't you?" 

"No! I don't. We have sex at least five times a day and it's perpetually the best sex either of us has had. I mean, come on, admit it. And isn't this something, perhaps, we should have discussed before you went ahead and made a fool of us?" 

"Look, Sam, you're gonna like it. Trust me. I've been in tons of threesomes before, and let me tell you, they're like the best thing ever." 

"I'm just not sure I'm comfortable with..." 

"We're on a cruise. Throw your inhibitions aside," Frodo commanded gallantly.

"This isn't a cruise, Frodo. It's a god-forsaken hellhole. I mean, has the S.S. Fuck Me even left port yet?" 

"No, it hasn't." 

"Yeah, well, we've been on this ship for 18 seconds and you're already looking for other people to have sex with." 

"I can see we're not going to be getting along for a little while," Frodo chartered. "I'll be in the replimat. Come find me when you're looking for a little love." 

"With you, or with a stranger?" 

"Toodles," was Frodo's only response. 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX 

At replimat, Frodo took a stool at a table all alone by himself in the corner, which he thought was the location with the least possibility of being seen by anyone. He flipped through the menu. "Can I help you?" asked a tall, dark individual whose nametag said "FARAMIR." 

"I'm pissed at my boyfriend," Frodo moaned. "Can you change his mind about having group sex with anonymous strangers?" 

"I don't think so. I'm just here to take your order." 

"Okay. How does this work?" 

"Well, you tell me what you want, and I punch it in on this little pad here, which sends the order directly to the replicator, which turns excess molecules just sitting around on the ship into your food." 

"Where do you find excess molecules?" 

Faramir shrugged. "Don't ask me. I have no idea, and we probably both don't want to know. Anyway, after your food is created, I'll bring it to you, you'll eat it, and I'll bill your room. Capisce?" 

"I miss Sam!" Frodo wailed. 

"Ugh, forget this shit," Faramir exclaimed, slagging off.

"Okay! Okay! I'll order!" screeched Frodo as Faramir tried to make his escape. 

"What would we be having this evening?" Faramir replied, surprisingly formal. 

"I want spaghetti and meatballs, hold the meatballs." 

"I'll see what I can do." Thirty seconds later Faramir returned with a plate of spaghetti. "Here you are. That will be $6.99" 

"Just bill it to my room," exclaimed Frodo, throwing the plate of spaghetti into Faramir's face and running away at top speed. He burst into his quarters to find Sam reading on the bed. "SAM! I hope you don't like to eat, because we totally can never go back to that cafeteria." 

"It's called a mess hall. And why?" 

"It's a long story." 

"Did you throw food at the waiter again?" 

"I just can't stop myself. I get so stressed in these situations." 

Sam thought for a moment. "I'm going to take a sonic shower and when I get out you'd better be in your sling." 

"Yes, master." 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The next morning, Frodo woke up bright and early. "Come on, Sam! If we both get dressed and make it to the mess hall by 05:30 hours, we get 5 quatloos off our breakfast tacos!" 

"Breakfast tacos?" 

"Yes, that's what people eat in the future!" Sam didn't budge. "Come on, Sam! Stop being a lazybones and greet the morning! Mr. Sun is smiling down on you!" 

"I don't know what 'sun' you're on about, but we're in outerfuckingspace, here. 'Morning' has no meaning. I'm going back to sleep." 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Frodo pouted as he sat at his breakfast table all alone. He really hoped Sam had some kind of aneurysm in his sleep and died. Then, at least Frodo would get to buy a whole new mourning wardrobe. 

"Good morning, sir, what can I get you for ... oh." Faramir paused. "You're not going to throw your food on me again and run away like a maniac, are you?" 

Frodo's bottom lip quivered, and then he burst into tears. "Why wouldn't Sam come to breakfast!" he sobbed. "Why doesn't he love me anymore?" 

"I'm really not qualified to answer these questions at ass-crack in the morning, sir." 

"All right, just bring me a Bloody Maria," Frodo ordered, the official name of the Bloody Mary having been changed in 2049 when Puerto Rico took over the globe officially. 

Just then, out of the corner of his eye, Frodo saw a happy-looking couple dressed in what looked like pajamas walk into the mess hall. They looked kind of sexy, so he sidled over to their table and plopped down his Bloody Maria. "Mind if I join you, gentlemen?" he asked in his most sultry tone. 

"Not at all. But I should make it clear that only Geordi here is a man. I am an android," the pale-faced pajama-wearing person said. 

"Oh, whatever. As long as you're fully functional," Frodo retorted. 

"And anatomically correct," the android responded. 

"Sorry about my friend. He's not good at these social situations. You'll get used to him. My name's Geordi, and this is Data." 

"Geordi? That's a funny name. I really shouldn't talk. My name's Frodo. Now that's a weird name," Frodo said, staring at Data's crotch. 

"So, I bet you're wondering about this VISOR I'm wearing?" Geordi offered. 

"Um, no," Frodo said, still mesmerized. "I was wondering what Data meant by anatomically correct ... inch-wise of course." 

"I have 10.5 inches," Data said. 

"Wow! So what do you two say about a threesome? I'm already so horny being on this ship a total of twelve hours." 

"Geordi?" Data asked. 

"Yeah, sure. Let's go to our suite." The three got up. 

"Suite?" Frodo whispered to himself. He had hit the jackpot.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

At the sexy duo's even sexier suite, Data sat down at the grand piano and began to play a soothing rendition of Handel's "Fireworks Music." Geordi offered Frodo a drink. Frodo asked for a cherry phosphate with Romulan Ale in it. Geordi made two, one for himself and one for Frodo. 

"What, you're not going to offer any booze to your friend over there?" Frodo wanted to know. 

"Do you have any idea how expensive these minibars are? I'm not wasting any open alcohol on that stupid robot," Geordi sneered. 

"I am an android," Data corrected, playing happily, although he didn't have emotions. 

"Yeah, I see." Frodo nodded in approval. 

"So, Jordan, what is it that you do?" Frodo asked. 

"My name is Geordi." 

"Oh, right." 

"I'm an engineer." 

"Is that anything like a plumber?" 

"Somewhat." 

"I always wanted to have sex with a plumber!" 

"Well, Frodo, what do you do?"

"That's really not important." Frodo slyly covered up. 

"No, I think it is," Data chimed in, "If you were, let us say, a prostitute, it would be prudent for us to know that information." 

Geordi looked appalled, "Frodo, he didn't mean to insinuate that you are a 'lady of the night.' I think his manners chip may be malfunctioning. Let me take a look at that." Geordi walked over and pressed a point on Data's head. A panel of hair lifted up. It was kind of Alfalfa-esque. 

Frodo gasped. "Ew. That is so not sexy." 

"Sorry," Geordi apologized, "This will only take a moment." Geordi took a pen and started sticking it around in Data's head, which was filled with flashing lights for some reason. "There we go. Good as new." 

Data's eyes flashed at Frodo. "Do you care for some oral sex, sir?" he asked politely. 

"Do I ever!" Frodo relinquished. 

"Yeeha!" Geordi careened. 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Meanwhile, Sam was busy reading the Salt Lake City Register in his room. Ever since the New York Times had imploded after endless scandals with reporters making up stories, the Salt Lake City Register had risen to become the world leader in news. Why? Nobody knows. 

'Where's Frodo?' he thought to himself, scratching his knuckles fervently. His stomach was growling so he went to the mess hall to both look for Frodo and get some food. 'I'm killing two birds with one stone!' he thought, secretly very proud of himself. 

At the cafeteria there were only a few people. He saw a waiter and flagged him down. "I'll have steak and eggs benedict. It's my favorite," Sam informed the waiter, "And have you seen a dainty little, um, man with longish curly black hair and piercing blue eyes?" 

"Yeah, he was here about an hour ago. He left with Stevie Wonder and his toy robot." 

"I see," Sam ululated.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Here's your steak-and-eggs benedict," Faramir intoned, slamming a plate of food down in front of Sam. "For the love of god, please don't _throw_ it at me." 

"Now, why would I do that?" Sam asked suspiciously. 

"I don't know. It's been an odd day." 

"Did a man dump a plate of food on you?" 

"He might have." 

"Was he extremely, um..." Sam paused to think. "_Homosexual_ looking?" 

"He looked a few testicles short of male, if that's where this is going." 

"That's my boyfriend, Frodo. Listen, I am so, so sorry about him. He gets really crazy on these interspace flights," Sam lied, excluding the part where Frodo was crazy all of the time. "Is there anything I can do? I just feel awful." 

"Yeah, you can keep him out of here when I'm working." 

"When do you work?" 

"From 4 a.m. to 7 p.m." 

"My god, that's the worst thing I ever heard." 

"Yes, the future is sure terrible now that they've abandoned all labor-rights laws and unions." 

"I see." Just then, a gold-lame blur rushed into the mess hall and attached itself to Sam's waist. 

"Sam!" it cried. 

"Ah! God, get it away from me!" Faramir screamed girlishly. 

"Oh, it's just Frodo," Sam said. "And he's not eating anything to throw at you, so don't worry." 

"Um, I'm going over _here_ now." Faramir inched slowly away. 

"Sam, I cheated on you with a robot," Frodo confessed. "Do you think that makes me robosexual?" 

"Actually, he's an android," Faramir added from a distance. 

"Oh, well. Then, no. You have to be into robots to be robosexual," Sam soothed, petting Frodo's wet hair. "You slept with an android. That's totally different." 

"Is there a difference between robots and androids?" Frodo asked. 

"I think androids are fully functional, and robots aren't," Sam pondered. "But you'll have to consult the encyclopedia for that one."

"Oh, whatever. Who even cares anymore? Let's go play shuffleboard in the holodeck like normal people." 

"Fine," Sam concluded. They left the table with only a few measly dimes as tip. 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Nine rousing rounds of holo-shuffleboard later Sam and Frodo retired to their cabin for some post-holodeck sex. "Oh, Sam," Frodo moaned, carefully unzipping his space-outfit. 

"Frodo, are you wearing space-underwear too?" 

"Of course I am, silly. All the cool people are wearing it ... in space. At least that's what the clerk at H&M told me." 

"Whatever, just take them off and never wear them again." 

"No underwear. Ooooh! Kinky!" Frodo growled seductively and pounced onto Sam. A tussle ensued which of course ended in Frodo pinned to the ground taking up the rear. 

After their little coital session Frodo took out a cigarette from the pack of Marlboro Reds he had in his space-purse. Sam took a long drag on his Virginia Slim. "I swear, they took all the fun out of cigarettes," Frodo whined. 

"Why?" 

"When they made them good for you." 

"Oh yeah, that." 

"Anyway, I'm hungry. Let's go get some post-coital flapjacks." 

"Why is it always breakfast food with you?" 

"Does it really matter? We're in outer space." 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

When they arrived at the replicatorium there was a new waiter. "Thank god," Sam slurred. 

"Hi, my name is Eowyn. Can I get you anything to start off with?" the waitress said as she seated the happy couple. 

"Yes, I'll have some flapjacks," Frodo lilted. 

"And I'll have baby-back ribs, and a side salad," Sam announced gruffly. 

"Oh, a manly man," Eowyn chided expertly. Thirty seconds later she returned with their food. 

"Anyway, Frodo, I've been meaning to ask you something," said Sam to a busily munching Frodo. 

"Oh?" Frodo said, eyeing the ketchup. "Oh! You want to ask me to marry you?" his voice raised in pitch. 

"No!" Sam shot back. "That's not it." 

"You don't want to marry me?" Frodo teared up. A temper tantrum was on its way. Sam knew he needed to diffuse it, and quickly.

"I wanted to ask you if we could visit the official Deinonychus VII Intergalactic Portrait Gallery." 

"Um, why?" 

"I hear they've just unveiled a new portrait of G. Gordon Liddy," Sam noted. G. Gordon Liddy was the 47th _and_ 51st president of the U.S. and, furthermore, his quiches eventually ended world hunger. 

"I guess," Frodo sighed. "You know, did I ever tell you that my mother was a Liddyist?" 

"Why, no." Sam was amazed. "I thought your mother was an Abortionist." 

"Well, her father was a strict Abortionist, but her mother was a Liddyist, and I think when Mama grew up, she so resented Grandpa that she left her Abortionist path behind her. Wow, I can't believe I'm telling you this." 

"So, can we go to the portrait gallery?" 

"Only if you promise not to wear you Speedo out in public any more." 

"Not even on Speedo Day?" 

"Especially not on Speedo Day." 

"Oh, fiddle." 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX 

On the way back to the cabin, Frodo and Sam ran into Data in the turbolift. "Deck four," said Data upon entering. "Oh, hello, Frodo. Who is your companion?" 

"This is my boyfriend, Sam." 

"Greetings, Sam. I am called Data. Your boyfriend and I engaged in sexual relations which were mutually satisfactory. You see, I am programmed in over 204,000 methods of—" 

"Okay, that's enough," Frodo grimaced. "Turbolift, just let us off here." The doors opened, and Frodo pulled Sam onto the strange deck. 

"Farewell," Data said as the doors shut in his face. 

"Um ... what deck are we on?" Sam pondered.

"The pleasure deck!" a bearded man in full showgirl attire announced, spinning roulette wheel and dealing both of them a hand of blackjack. "I'm Saruman, and I'll be your pleasure coordinator this evening. 

"I thought it was morning." Sam resuscitated. 

"It's always evening on the pleasure deck, silly," Frodo chastised. 

"I didn't even know this rust bucket had a pleasure deck!" Sam gamgeed. 

"Well it does, you two," Saruman interrupted. "Can I interest you in some holodeck time? It's only $20 an hour." 

"Yeah, what the heck," Sam agreed, to Frodo's surprise. Normally Sam was such a stingy bastard, but he had had his favorite breakfast just a few minutes before so he was in a good mood. "Any new programs?" he asked the ridiculous hostess. 

"As a matter of fact, we just received a new program. It's called 'The Shire.' I'm afraid it's not very exciting. It's more of a relaxation thing. Think English countryside meets bucolic paradise in New Zealand." 

"Sounds boring," chimed Frodo. 

"Sounds perfect," overrode Sam, stuffing $40 into Saruman's brassiere.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Sam puffed on his pipeweed in the study of Bag End. 'Ah, this is the life,' he thought to himself. He heard a knock on the door. 'That must be Frodo.' 

Sure enough, there was Frodo, dressed up in a French maid's outfit. "I'm here to wash the windows, or something," Frodo role-played half-heartedly. 

"Ah. Good, they're very dirty. Just like everything else in this house ... including me..." 

"Have you been a dirty boy?" Frodo said, waving the ostrich feather duster he had in his hand seductively. 

"I sure have," Sam said, as he eyed the unicorn munching on the front lawn.

Just then, a loud siren began to blare and a light began to flash. "Ahhhhhhh!" Frodo cried, tearing the little white lace frill out of his hair. "It's the apocalypse!" 

"It's not the apocalypse," said the leader of the cleaning squad that was climbing out of the fire place in orange jumpsuits. "We just need to sweep up the place every day at 6:30." 

"It's not 6:30!" Frodo sombered. "You're all interrupting our lovemaking!" 

"Oops," said the lead cleaner fakely. "Did we do _that_ again?" 

"What is this?" Sam cried. "Get out!" 

"Okay, fine, We're going." Thirty men in orange jumpsuits filed back into the fireplace, one by one. 

"Okay, Sam," Frodo threatened. "That had better be the last nearly crazy thing that happens in this retarded program." 

"Okay, okay. Let's hitch up the wagon and ride into town." 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

In the holographic town, Frodo and Sam stopped at the Twig and Berries. They took a table near the window and sat down. "So," said Sam anxiously. "When we gonna have sex?" 

"Wasn't I the one who wanted to have sex earlier on?" Frodo asked. 

"Um, I think you just wanted to have a three-way. Anyway, we're here now. Get me an Amstel." 

"Okay," Sam shuffled away, pulling up his lederhosen as he walked. While Frodo was alone, a mysterious stranger sat down at the table with him. 

"Greetings," said the stranger. 

"Hi," said Frodo. 

"I am called Fred Burrows. I come bearing a message from your Uncle Biblo." 

"That's a stupid name," Frodo duhhed. "I don't have an Uncle Biblo." 

"He sends you this Ring of Power," said Fred, offering Frodo a ring. 

"What am I supposed to do with this?" Frodo asked. 

"Destroy it!" Fred exclaimed menacingly.

"Wait a minute," Frodo retorted, "you're giving me this ugly-ass ring, and I'm supposed to destroy it? Look, why don't you just destroy it? It needs to be put out of its misery." 

"Because you are the only one who can do it. You and the fellowship must go to Murdron and throw it into the fiery pits of Thunder Mountain." 

"The fellowship?" Frodo asked, confused. 

"Of course. You, Sam, and the seven dwarves: Doc, Grumpy, Happy, Sneezy, Bashful, Sleepy, and Dopey." Fred replied. Just then seven short and stocky (and extremely unattractive) men popped out from behind some barrels of ale. 

"Um, I'm not sure I want to do this. Sam!" Frodo called.

"Yes, my delicious turtledove?" Sam sputtered, bringing Frodo an Amstel and a cup of extra-salty bar peanuts. 

"What are these _dwarfs_--" 

"Dwarves!" Grumpy corrected, waving his fist in Sam's face. 

"Excuse me, but I received a terminal MA in English at the University of Lexington. I _think_ I know what the plural of 'dwarf' is," Frodo toodle-pipped.

"Fred, tell him he's wrong," Sleepy whined.

"You're wrong," Fred Burrows incanted, waving his arms around mystically. 

"No, I'm not! Sam, tell them I'm not wrong!" 

"He's not wrong," Sam affirmed half-heartedly. 

"Well, I think we're going to have a problem here," Fred Burrows magicked. "Now, step aside for the entrance of the nine Blue Riders of Glussex!" 

"Um..." Frodo and Sam slurred in unison. 

"You must fight them with your powers!" all seven dwarfs enthused together. 

"What the fuck is this?" Frodo asked. 

"I think you've got to use your ring," Sam suggested. 

"Wait! Your musn't use the ring!" Fred wavered. 

"It's 'mustn't,' with a T," Frodo yawned.

"Holodeck, end program," Sam wheezed. 

Suddenly everything went blank. Sam and Frodo were left standing in a black room with yellow duct tape making a grid pattern on the wall. "Wow, that was like the worst program ever," Sam, said. 

"Yeah, these holodeck programs have been steadily decreasing in quality for years. It's like they ran out of ideas after they did 'Harry Potter and the Secret of the Moonstone Papaya.' " 

"That was a great program." 

"Yeah. Let's use up the rest of our hour and three minutes on that. Holodeck, play file 'Harry Potter and the Secret of the Moonstone Papaya.' " 

Sam and Frodo were suddenly thrust into the depths of the Hogwarts Castle, deep in the crevices of Snape's musty office.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Two hours later, the dynamic duo had finished the holodeck program. "Man, that was weird," Sam stuttered. 

"Yeah, I wish we were on a ship that had some decent holodeck programs, instead of these awful budget reject B-movie programs." This lat bit of Frodo's diatribe was directed at Saruman, who was busy stuffing his brassiere with tissues. 

"Look," Saruman sniffed, "as the pleasure deck coordinator, I hand-picked all of these programs, and I think they're great. If you don't enjoy Moonstone Papayas, well then I don't know what type of people you are. Harrumph." 

"Ugh, let's just spend the rest of this voyage having sex in our cabin like normal people," Frodo told Sam. 

"Agreed," Sam boomed back. They both approached the turbolift merrily. Unfortunately, there was a big "out of order" sign on it. "Perfect, just perfect," Sam announced. 

"Look, if I stay on this pleasure deck another minute, I think I might burst." 

"Yeah, just like the seams on Saruman's brassiere," Sam shot back wittily. 

"Very funny, Sam," Frodo said matter-of-factly as well as sarcastically. "We're taking the jet-freeze tube." 

"Fine." They both crawled in. It was a small confined space that required Sam to stare at Frodo's ass for the entire journey up six decks.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Frodo crawled out of the tube. "Are you there yet?" he screamed down at Sam. 

"My god," Sam drawled. "You don't have to yell, I'm right here." He climbed out of the tube too. "So, what's on the agenda for this evening? I was thinking first I'd fuck you, then I'd wash my hair, then I'd do it again." 

"Why not fuck me while I wash your hair?" 

"That's a little abstract even for me," Sam sniffed. 

"Oh, please," Frodo said, punching in the access code to the door to their cabin. "You're the least abstract person I know." 

"Explain." 

"Once I asked you to bring me a screwdriver, and you brought me a screwdriver." 

"What's the problem?" Sam asked, entering the cabin and taking off his Jetbootsu. 

"I wanted a drink, Sam, not a fucking tool." 

"Well, excuse me for being literal." 

"Oh, fiddle-dee-dee," Frodo touted. "Just shut up and fuck me already." 

"Will do!" 

He did.

THE END YO


	5. Virginia

Frodo gazed over the vast fields that were now under his control: tobacco, as far as the eye could see.

"Sir?" Merry said in his strong Southern accent. Frodo had just met Merry, who would be his liaison to the new slaves he had inherited. Most would call Merry the slave driver but Frodo felt those words were a little harsh.

"Yes, Meriadoc?"

"You can call me Merry."

"All right then, Merry, sugar. What was it you were askin', then?"

"I wanted to introduce you to your new valet. His name is Pippin." Merry pushed a miniscule, scared-looking slave in front of Frodo.

"Hello, Pippin," Frodo said cordially.

" 'Ello, Mr. Frodo, sir!" Pippin cheered. " 'Tis a lovely day, ain't it?

"I'm afraid to say it isn't," Frodo sighed sadly. "My uncle, Bilbo, has just left last evening for Rivendell, North Carolina."

"Whatever for, Master Frodo?" Pippin squeaked out cautiously.

"Why, he's gone there to retire. But don't you worry about him." Frodo stuck out a hand and roughly rubbed the top of Pippin's head. "We've lots of work to do."

"I'll do anything you ask, Mr. Frodo! Just say the word and I'll be darning your socks in a jiff!"

Frodo smiled a melancholy smile. "My socks are fine, Pippin. And you can call me 'Frodo.'" Frodo caught sight of Pippin's shocked expression. "You will find, sugar, that I am not as formal as Bilbo. Now, let's go inside." Frodo turned to speak to Merry, who had just kind of been standing there. "We'll speak later," Frodo said quietly.

The main house was very grand and was in the neoclassical style. Frodo walked through the many rooms noting in his mind the changes he would have to make in order to raise this place to his standards. The curtains in the parlor had to go. Pink ones would go nicely, Frodo thought to himself. Living on this plantation wasn't going to be so bad. He was, however, going to miss the metropolitan nature of the place he had been living for the past five years: Richmond. It was going to be very difficult to meet suitable young men out in the country.

"So, Pippin," Frodo waxed casually. "How long have you been at Bag End?" Bag End, of course, being the name of the plantation.

"I was born here, sir," Pippin revealed. "My mam was Mr. Bilbo's best cook, she was."

"What happened to her?"

"Mister Merry, he done beat her and she don't wanna work, so Mister Bilbo sold her to Mister Saruman of Isengard Hills."

"Is she happy there?" Frodo asked, slightly queasy.

"I don't rightly know, sir. I haven't seen her since I was real wee."

"And how old are you now?"

"Twelve, sir."

"I see."

Frodo strolled into his bedchamber, absolutely exhausted. He'd done so much today! First, there were Bilbo's nasty relations, who came around to pry after his gold. Then there was little Pippin, who had chattered nonstop until Frodo finally asked him to halt.

And then there was Merry, who'd forced Frodo along on a six-hour tour of his new plantation. Frodo hadn't wanted to continue, but Merry was, for lack of a better term, an absolute slave driver.

Frodo swooned onto his plush chaise lounge. He picked up the newspaper lying next to him. He skipped over the front page which said something about Charles Sumner almost getting caned to death in the Senate. The fashion page was Frodo's final destination. He fell asleep reading something about embroidered silk from Paris.

The next few years sped by in a blur. Frodo found life at the Bag End Plantation sedentary and fascinating. Frodo, who mostly ignored politics, local or otherwise, was shocked when his employees, mostly Merry, would tell him about slave revolts, or the national debate over what seemed to be a highly controversial issue.

Meanwhile, Frodo was unsuccessful in his attempts at courting. Back in Richmond he has been quite popular among the local beaux, who were delighted at his ribald sense of humor and fine delicate hands. As one of those beaux, a Mister Ronaldo Pomodoro, had once exclaimed, "Oh, what those hands can do!" But Frodo's life at Bag End was joylessly devoid of company, for courting or otherwise. A Mister Fred Burrows often stopped in, but nothing ever came of those encounters. There has been a proposal of marriage from a Mister Folco Boffin, but Frodo had been marginally disinterested, finally deciding that Folco was too boisterous. It had been a lonely few years for Frodo—years absent of most excitement. But soon, it would all change for better—or for worse.

Frodo awoke to a strange noise. It sounded like popping corn. No, it was gunshots. Gunshots! Frodo sat up in bed. "Pippin!" He yelled, ringing the little bell on his beside table.

A terrified looking Pippin scurried into the room. "Yes, Mr. Baggins?"

"What are those gunshots?"

"My Auntie Isabelle tells me we're at war. Virginia has seceded from the union, along with many other states."

"Seceded? Why?"

"There was a great battle at Ft. Sumter. That's all I know, Sir."

"I hope this doesn't affect us much."

What Frodo hoped and what actually took place were quite different. Frodo first noticed small things missing at the local market, but soon it was hard to even find a good sized cucumber. Most of the men in the area had gone to fight in the battles, which meant Frodo was having an even harder time finding a decent man. Now, in addition to worrying about the usual things, he also had to worry if they had all their limbs.

Everything was about to change for Frodo one foggy March night. News of a Union Army on the march had reached Bag End.

Frodo was shocked to hear the whinnies of his capable Palomino steeds as he sat down to supper. Pippin, who was nearby, stumbled into the dining room.

"Mr. Frodo!" he whooped, falling to his knees. "There's a Yankee at the door, Mr. Frodo! A Yankee!" Pippin was obviously sobbing and trembling in fear.

Frodo knew Bilbo's old shotgun was still hung over the mantelpiece in the drawing room, and he also knew that all of his gold and confederate bonds wee either in the well in a lockbox, or at the local bank. With a sigh of resignation, Frodo rose.

"All right, Pippin. I'll come down and meet him."

"He looks dangerous, Mr. Frodo! Powerful dangerous."

"Frodo considered this. "Pip, dear, do you know how to work Bilbo's old shotgun? The one over the fireplace in the drawing room?" Pippin nodded, slow and cautious. "Well, you go get that gun down. I will greet the Yankee, and if I shout – if there's any sort of trouble – I want you to shoot. Do you understand me?"

With a standard bow, Pippin scurried off. Frodo untucked his napkin from the collar of his shirt, and straightened his sleeves. He would meet this Yankee, face to face. Frodo was unnerved. He had never noticed how creaky the front hall stairs truly were. Despite his brave demeanor, Frodo was quaking. "There's nothing for it, old boy." He reassured himself. "You just go down there and tell that Yankee off."

When he got to the bottom of the stairs he looked up. His eyes met the stare of the most beautiful man Frodo had ever seen. He was absolutely stunning and his blue Union uniform really brought out the blue in his eyes. "Well, hello, sugar." Frodo flirted, batting his eyelashes.

"Sir, are you the master of this estate?"

"Yes. Yes, I am. Who do I have the pleasure (and let me assure you, it is a pleasure) of meeting?"

"I am commander Samwise Gamgee of the sixth infantry unit. I am afraid we need to seize your land temporarily and use it as a base."

"Would that mean more sexy men in uniform like yourself would be visiting?"

"Um, yes. I guess."

"In that case you are all my guests."

"Really?" Sam looked shocked.

"Yes, of course. Have you never heard of Southern hospitality?"

"I just thought this would be a lot more difficult."

Frodo loved having all of those young sexy soldier-types staying with him. He especially liked Commander Gamgee. He just couldn't keep his mind or his eyes off of him. Frodo supped with Commander Gamgee each and every night. One night Frodo finally made some progress.

"Oh, Mr. Gamgee. If I had known men up North were so handsome I would have left Virginia a long time ago."

"Yes, it's very nice up there."

"So, do you have a girlfriend or wife waiting for you at home?"

"No, I'm a confirmed bachelor."

"Oh." Frodo was busy plotting his next step. "Sam? May I call you Sam?"

"Of course."

"Where did you say you were from?"

"Saratoga, New York."

"Huh."

"What does that mean?"

"Oh. It's just I've never heard of it before, that's all."

"Really? It's a fairly sizable town."

"Well, I've never been north of Washington. Will you take me to Saratoga, Sam? After all of this fighting's through? I would like to see it."

"That could be arranged." Sam said sinisterly.

Pippin sat at Frodo's bed, clutching the pillow cases. "Please don't go." He sobbed. "Oh, Mr. Frodo, whatever will we do at Bag End without you?"

"It's all right, Pip." Frodo was folding his trousers and carefully placing them in his carpetbag suitcase. "Merry will look after Bag End in my absence."

"Surely the Yankees will..."

"Ah, Pippin." Frodo snapped his bag shut and patted Pippin on the head as he had at their first meeting. "I'm going to Saratoga with Sam. He will keep me safe. His family is up there."

"You can't be traveling nowhere with that Yankee, Mr. Frodo! He'll, he'll…"

"—He'll be fine to me, I'm sure."

"Are you sure, Mr. Frodo?"

Frodo took a deep breath and smiled his best toothy smile. "Yes, Pip. I'm sure."

"I have to admit, Sir, I was surprised when you told me you wanted to come North with me." Sam said. Frodo and Sam were sitting, respectively, passenger and driver in a cart pulled by two of Frodo's favorite Palominos, Rodney and Abraham. "But now that we're on the road, I have a good feeling about the whole thing."

Frodo said nothing. He closed his eyes, lurched closer to Sam, and concentrated on the deep, mellow voice.

"Oh, Sam." Frodo sighed. He was in love with the handsome soldier's calm demeanor. Sam's strong arms were confident and yet gentle as he grasped the reigns of the horses. "How will we be received when we reach Saratoga?"

Sam chuckled to himself. It was an eerie, scoundrel-ish chuckle. "Not well, I'm afraid."

Not well! Frodo was alarmed. "It is because you're a Yankee commander and I'm a confederate slave holder?"

"Oh, my dear." Sam took Frodo's pale hand in his and delicately kissed it. "The war's been hard on you. Hell, it's been harder Saratoga."

"How so? All of my neighbor's homes have been burned to the ground! Saratoga hasn't been touched!"

"Um. I'm just talking, like people do." Suddenly a loud clap of thunder made both Frodo and Sam jump. Frodo's Palominos started to bray and buck. Sam gallantly took the reigns.

"Oh wow!" shrieked Frodo.

"Don't worry, my sweet. I will pull us under that oak tree over yonder." 

Just then a bolt of lightening struck the indicated oak tree, cracking it in half. Frodo shrieked some more.

"I'll pull us under that bridge." Sam said, as he directed the carriage under a bridge. The rain was pounding onto them and the roofless carriage was drenched.

"Oh, Sam. We almost died!"

"That's right, my sweet."

"Kiss me, Samwise. Kiss me like you've never kissed me before."

"I haven't ever kissed you before."

"Well, kiss me now!" Sam confidently swept Frodo up into his arms.

"Close your eyes, my darling. I want this fist kiss of ours to be spectacular, like the first sunset of summer when the nights are balmy and moist and the sun smears across the sky like colors on the master's palette."

"Oh, Sam!" Frodo felt another pair of lips fuse to his and he slowly and gingerly let Sam slide his tongue inside, past the barriers of Frodo's chastity. He had been kissed before, but not like this. Even with his eyes closed, he saw stars.

"How was that?" Sam asked softly, opening his eyes and pulling away.

Frodo had no words. Except for these: "Oh, Sam!"

"Oh, my Frodo! I wish I'd met you long before now—I wish I'd met you in another life, when there was no war."

"Kiss me again, Sam!"

"Yes, Sir!" Sam firmly planted his lips onto Frodo's. The sensations were so great that they were almost agony to endure. Sam started to unbutton Frodo's trousers. 

"Sam, no…"

"What? Don't worry. You'll like it."

"It's just. Well, I've never done this before. I've never gotten past kissing."

"Are you meaning to say that this is your first time?"

"Yes, Sam. I'm so sorry if that's a problem."

"It's no problem. Get ready for the ride of your life!" Sam yelled as he continued to unbutton Frodo's pantaloons.

Frodo was very near fainting as he watched Sam's fingers swiftly undo his pants. The sensation of the material sliding down his thighs, everything slick with the wet Virginia rain and perspiration…Frodo was so inexperienced, and yet, so eager. He stepped out of his pants and fell into Sam's arms.

"Shh," Sam shh-ed gently. "Easy, now. I want this to be good for you."

"Oh, Sam. I'm so nervous."

"Don't be nervous, my darling. All we need is love (and lots of water-based lubricant) and everything will be hunky dory."

"How's that?" Frodo asked.

"All we need is love."

"No, what was in the parentheses?"

"What parentheses?" Sam asked. "No parentheses."

"Oh, okay." Sam gracefully spit into his hand (really) and rubbed his warm saliva into the part of Frodo's anatomy commonly known in modern times as the "sphincter".

"How does that feel?" Sam asked, gently massaging his spit into his lover's bottom.

"Wonderful," Frodo said dreamily. "I never knew how wonderful making love could be."

Gently Sam felt for the middle of the little ring with his index finger, and slipped inside.

"Oh!" Frodo exclaimed.

"Are you alright?" Sam asked.

"Oh, yes," Frodo choked out. "It caught me off guard, but it feels lovely now."

"Should I try to go a little deeper?"

"Yes, please." Sam wiggled his finger further inside of Frodo, searching out the special place he knew would bring his beau unimaginable pleasure. When Frodo gasped in delight and squirmed in Sam's arms, he knew he had the spot. He chuckled to himself.

"Ah, my dear. How does that feel?"

"Oh, Sam! More, give me more!"

"You want more, do you?"

"Yes! Oh, Sam, you have no idea how much I want it! How much I need it—oh!" Sam slipped in a second finger. Frodo was wriggling, trying to position himself right on top of Sam's wily knowledgeable digits.

The rain was still pouring all around them. The bridge was only protecting them so much. The air was thick and humid around them. Sam removed his fingers from Frodo's bum and positioned himself over Frodo. "Are you ready?" he asked.

"Ready as I'll ever be!" voiced Frodo enthusiastically.

Frodo was on his back, legs over Sam's shoulders, panting. "Please, Sam. I never wanted anything in my life more than I've wanted this."

Sam inched closer to Frodo and positioned the head of his cock at the shuddering entrance to Frodo's body. "Just relax," he whispered. "You have to relax. I don't want to hurt you."

"You could never hurt me." Frodo drolled.

"No, I totally could. Like, my penis? It's huge."

"Oh, I guess you could."

"Yeah, I could. So just relax." Frodo sighed dreamily and relaxed against the soft Virginia mud. Sam's cock was gently nudging his entrance and Frodo felt himself open, like a dainty rosebud blooming after a hard spring rain. He felt his insides retracting and then relaxing like a butterfly stuck in a honey pot.

Sam groaned a mighty groan and felt the soft walls of Frodo's body snuggle up to his magical sperm wand. He began pumping in and out, slowly at first but then faster like a piston in a steam engine he went in and out repeatedly. Frodo felt Sam's meaty tube steak plow over and over his fertile P-spot. He cried out in love and clutched his bowels together. He felt Sam's scepter tighten and then release successive gushes of love juice.

"Oh, Sam!" he cried out. Luckily, Sam's mighty torrent of hot pearl jam came out in a forceful spray, hitting Frodo's prostate with a gargantuan wallop. Frodo, who had not touched his own meek penis once during this sex scene, felt a tidal wave of raw emotions and pleasure as a few pathetic drips of semen leaked out of his member.

"OH, SAM!" he over-emoted.

"Oh, Frodo," Sam mewed, pulling his dick out of his beloved bottom's, um, beloved bottom. "Did I hurt you, my love? Are you in pain?"

"A little." Frodo confessed bravely.

The rain started to let up. The sun came out from behind the clouds. "Frodo?" Sam asked tenderly.

"Sam. I don't think I can leave Virginia. Saratoga sounds nice but this is my home. Besides, in my current state I don't think I cold survive the carriage ride."

"I think that's a marvelous idea!"

"Really?"

"I was never too keen on going back to Saratoga in the first place. You just wanted to go so badly and I wanted to keep you near me."

"That's so sweet."

"Yes, well let's turn this carriage around. To Bag End!" Sam whipped the Palominos who whinnied and took off galloping back south towards Frodo's plantation.


	6. Massachusetts

"It has to be perfect!" Frodo announced. He had just told his uncle Bilbo that his long-time partner, Sam, had finally proposed to him. 

"What needs to be perfect?" Bilbo asked, incredulously. 

"The wedding, course." Frodo crossed his arms. 

"You can't have a wedding! You're gay. It's called a commitment ceremony." 

"Uh-uh. We're in Massachusetts. Gay marriage is legal here now. That means I can have the biggest and best wedding this dumpy little state has ever seen." 

"Oh no," Bilbo sighed. 

"And since I am obviously the 'bride' in this relationship you get to pay for the whole thing." 

"Of course."

"So, I want to hire a wedding planner. I need to have the best. Do you know anyone? You throw those charity balls all the time, right? I never go, so I wouldn't know if they're successful." 

"Well, I have _my_ event planner, but I don't know if she does weddings. I mean, I'm sure she can." 

"No! I must have somebody that specializes in extravagant weddings. You know, you're going to have to spend at least $500,000 on this, right?" 

"Eeesh! Frodo, that's a lot of money." 

"Oh, Bilby, you're filthy rich, what do you care?" 

"Well, I guess those orphans in Housatonic won't be getting any blankets this year." 

"You're saying that as if I care. Now, wedding planner." 

"Well, my colleague, Fred Burrows, just had a big expensive wedding. I could call him and ask him who he used." 

"Do it. Do it right now!" 

Bilbo picked up the phone and punched in some numbers. "Hi, Fred? It's me, Bilbo. I'm doing fine … anyway, I just needed to ask you the name of your wedding planner. Really? He's the best? Thanks so much. Bye." 

"Well, what did he say? Who is the best wedding planner in all of Massachusetts?" Frodo asked impatiently. 

There was a pregnant pause, and then Bilbo answered: "Toddy Noodlehoover, apparently. Have you ever heard of this person?" 

Frodo rolled his eyes. "Do I look like I'm in the business of event-planning? Previous to today, of course. How good is this Noodlehoover character, anyhow? Good, I hope?" 

"I suppose. Fred and Martha's wedding was certainly a real to-do." 

"A good to-do, or a bad to-do?"

"You know." 

Frodo sighed. Sometimes Bilbo could be very vague. "Well, give Toddy a ring, set up a consultation, whatever you do." Frodo glided over to the windows of Bilbo's Back Bay penthouse, and looked out over Boston. "I never thought this day would come!" Frodo sighed, pressing his forehead against the glass windows and creating an unsightly smudge that Rosie, the maid, would have to take care of. 

"You mean the day you finally drive me into debt?" 

"No, the day I get married. Duh."

"Yes, the day you get married." Bilbo, like the Brahmin he was, suppressed his tears. He knew he was in for the worst six months of his life.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Meanwhile, Sam was busy informing his family of the big news. His family wasn't from Massachusetts, so he had to do this by phone. His father, Hamfast, who everyone affectionately called "the Gaffer" because of his successful career as a gaffer for movies, still lived in L.A., where Sam had grown up. 

He had two brothers and three sisters. Hamson and Halfred both lived in Chattanooga, Tennessee, with their respective wives, Hammama and Hameria. They had always been inseparable, as twins often are. Daisy lived somewhere in the Minneapolis-St. Paul area, with her husband, Bill Chuthers, and their litter of seven children. May was a poet and lived in Brooklyn. Sam had always gotten along with her best. She was still "single." Frodo thought she was a lesbian, but he always though everyone was gay. Sam didn't know where his sister Marigold was. She was the "wild" one. Last thing he had heard she was either in rehab or in jail. Really, it didn't matter much to him. 

First he decided to call his father. The man was a bit senile, but he still deserved to be informed first, even if he wouldn't remember the phone call five minutes afterwards. Sam punched the numbers into his cell phone. 

He heard the ringer ring at least eight times before his father finally picked up. "Who is it?" the Gaffer rasped. 

"It's your son, Sam," Sam informed him. 

"I have no son." 

"Pa, you have three sons, and three daughters, remember?" 

"Of course I remember! I still have me wits about me." 

"Good. I have some big news for you. Are you ready?" 

"Ready for what? Out with it. I'm missing Oprah." 

"I'm getting married!" 

"What's her name?" 

"_His_ name, Pa. _His_ name. I'm gay, remember?"

"Oh, you're the gay one," the Gaffer harrumphed. "I get so confused." 

"It's not confusing. You just have to check that flow chart I made you. Remember?" 

"I find that flow chart demeaning. I can keep track of my own family." 

"No, you can't," Sam no-you-can'ted. 

"You're right, I can't." the Gaffer agreed. "So, what's his name?" 

"Frodo Baggins," Sam answered. "Remember, Pa? You met him at Daisy's coming out party." 

"She's gay too?" 

"No, Pa. Debutante ball." 

The Gaffer paused. "Oh, right, it's here on the flow chart. Okay, I have to get back to Oprah. Is there anything I can do?" 

"What could you possibly do? I think Frodo's taking care of everything." 

"Well, if you need any complex lighting schemes, I am a gaffer." 

"Do you even know what a gaffer is?" 

"I'll get back to you on that one. This flow chart is really complex."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

That night, Bilbo took Sam and Frodo out to dinner to celebrate, because it was Rosie's night off and he just didn't know what to do about ordering a pizza, given that Frodo would only eat his "white," which meant with no sauce, but he also didn't like cheese. "What you want is really more like flatbread," Bilbo said to him. 

"It's sauceless, cheeseless pizza," Frodo insisted. 

"That doesn't exist," said Bilbo's 23-year-old girlfriend Trixie Malloy, of the Newport Malloys. 

"Shut up," Frodo whined. He was always sort of jealous of the attention (and other resources) Bilbo paid to Trixie. 

"Well, let's just go to dinner," Bilbo grumbled. Sam met them at the Giorgio Armani restaurant on Newberry Street because it was too late to get a reservation anywhere else. The Armani restaurant had flatbread. 

"Should we order some flatbread?" Sam asked encouragingly. 

"I'm really more in the mood for pizza," Frodo insisted. Bilbo smacked his head. 

"Maybe we should order a bottle of wine," Sam said lamely, even thought he knew he had to drive Frodo home and then wake up for his 9 a.m. meeting. Sam was in consulting. Frodo was in nothing, which was also coincidentally what Trixie Malloy was in. 

When the waiter came around to get the drink orders, Bilbo asked for whatever the best bottle of red was. Frodo ordered a bellini. 

"I don't drink if I'm working the next day, so I'll have a diet Coke," said Sam. 

"I can't drink on these antidepressants," said Trixie Malloy. 

"So I'm drinking this entire bottle of wine by myself again, is that it?" Bilbo asked. The whole table nodded. "Oh, great. Well, everyone raise your glass, and let's toast to the happy couple. I hope Frodo enjoys this wedding as much as I hate planning and paying for it." 

"What about me?" Sam asked. 

"Oh, Sam," Frodo sighed, sipping his bellini. "Nobody cares what you think." Sam frowned, but Frodo made up for his bitchiness the usual way, which was giving Sam a hand job under the table. 

On the ride home, Trixie Malloy turned to Bilbo and asked if he was sure Sam was gay. "He kept staring at me with this blank look of lust all through dinner. Do you think he likes me?" 

Bilbo thought Trixie and Frodo shared certain qualities, but then he shook it off. "Hell no," he said cheerfully. He was sort of tipsy.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Sam, I'm leaving you for Toddy Noodlehoover!" Frodo shouted down the stairs. 

"What? Did you say you're making noodle casserole? Remember what happens when you try to cook." 

Frodo skipped down the stairs. His steps were filled with gaiety. "No, I said I'm leaving you for Toddy Noodlehoover." 

"Really?" Sam was hopeful for a moment. He had been having second thoughts about this whole marriage thing. 

Of course Frodo wasn't being serious. "I mean, he's just doing such a great job planning our wedding. I love the theme: white, white, white. It's so perfect." 

"Isn't that the theme of most weddings?" Sam asked incredulously. "And white is a color, not a theme." 

"Sam, white is not a color. It's the absence of all colors." 

"Did you learn that in art school?" 

"No. Well, maybe. Honestly, I don't remember. There are going to be white roses everywhere. I love roses. You know, they used to call me 'the yellow rose of Texas.' " 

"First of all, who is _everybody_? And second of all, have you even ever been to Texas?" 

"I don't remember. Maybe it was another life, or another story. Honestly, why are you asking me these difficult questions? I can't be stressed right now. I have to look beautiful for the wedding day." 

"It's four months away!" 

"And we don't even have a venue yet!"

"Well, shouldn't you get on that?" 

"Look, Toddy e-mailed me some options. I wanted to discuss them with you. I printed them out. Here." Frodo shoved a stack of papers at least six inches thick into Sam's lap. "I alphabetized them for you. Now maybe you can narrow it down a little."

Sam began to shuffle through the papers. "We're not getting married at the Eagle." 

"But that's where we met!" 

"Frodo, it's a bar." 

"It would be so romantic!" 

"A really _awful_ bar," Sam said. He balled up that listing and threw it over his shoulder. "We're just going to have to get married at whatever the next one I pick is," he announced. 

"Oh no," Frodo whinnied. "I can't even look." He didn't even bother covering his eyes. "Tell me when it's over," he said dramatically. 

"How about the Marriott?" Sam asked. "They have a ballroom, and a Presidential Suite, and it looks great, and I'm done now." Sam handed Frodo the sheet of paper and threw the rest in the trashcan. "Well, that was interesting — not." Sam shuffled out of the room. 

"Come back!" Frodo cried, scrambling after him. "Don't you want to hear what I'm wearing?"

"Let me guess. A wedding dress?" 

"Don't you want to know what it looks like?" 

"You aren't honestly wearing a wedding dress to our wedding, are you?" 

"Well, of course!" 

"Frodo, I'm not really comfortable with you going in drag to our wedding." 

"Look, asshole. It's a very masculine wedding dress. It's by this new local designer. I just love her." 

"What's her name?" 

"Galadriel." 

"Is that her last name or her first name?" 

"She just has one name. She's like Cher." 

"Now, don't go using Cher's name in vain, Mr. Frodo." 

"Oh. I'm so sorry. I forgot." 

"Well, take care not to forget again."

"I won't. And when did you become religious?" 

"I've always been religious." 

"You eat bacon." 

"I don't think that's against my religion." 

"It's definitely one of the commandments in the Church of Gay." Sam rolled his eyes. "Well, it is!" Frodo cried after him, but Sam had all ready left the room. 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

At breakfast the next morning, Sam sat down next to Frodo, who was having his usual, a bowl of granola with fat-free yogurt and a Bloody Mary. "Frodo?" he asked sensitively, trying to put on his sensitive face. 

"Yes, Sammykins?" Frodo said, battling his eyelashes like windshield wipers in a heavy snowstorm. 

"There's something we need to talk about." 

Frodo put down his Bloody Mary and put on his reading glasses. Frodo had never read anything in his life but he thought they made him look 'elegant,' which was a look he definitely liked to convey during stressful chars. "What is it, my darling?" 

"I don't want you to wear a dress to our wedding." Sam shut his eyes after he said this, because he honestly feared for his life. When nothing happened, he sighed in relief and continued: "You know I love you, and I want to spend my life with you, but I just don't think wedding dresses are supposed to be masculine. Furthermore, the reason it's difficult to properly execute a masculine wedding dress is because men don't wear dresses to their own weddings. Wedding dresses are fine for special occasions, like—" Sam had to think on this one. "—Madonna concerts, but not for out wedding. You dig?" 

Frodo blinked. "You think I'm _fat_?" he moaned. 

"No." 

"Oh, sorry." Frodo cleared his throat and corrected himself: "You don't want me to wear a dress to our wedding?" 

"Yes. In fact, I would more or less insist that you didn't." 

"Well, Sam, that's fine. In fact, why don't I not even go to our wedding? Maybe we just shouldn't get married." 

"Frodo, you're overreacting." Actually, for Frodo, this reaction was fairly under-the-top. 

"No, Sam, I'm not. If you love me, you have to love all of me, and that means my wedding dress, too." 

"What, it's like a part of you now?" 

"See, there you are, making fun of me again. Well, make fun of me all you want. I quit!" Frodo stood up and began to run away, tears glistening on his pink little cheeks. 

"Where are you going?" Sam asked hopefully. "If it's to the grocery store, we're out of banana nut muffins." 

"I'm going back to my mother's house, Samwise. I don't think we are meant to be together _at all_." 

"Isn't your mother dead?" 

Frodo paused. "You're right. Fine, I'll just go back to Bilbo's house. He'll repair my fragile, battered ego." Sam was pretty sure this was the exact sort of thing Bilbo wouldn't do.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"BILBO!" Frodo wailed as he pushed open the large burled walnut doors to Bilbo's study. 

Bilbo was busy looking at papers, paying bills, and doing that sort of tedious rich people stuff. He glanced up from his paperwork. "Yes?" he grumbled. 

"The wedding is off! Call the wedding off! I don't want to get married to that asshole." 

"What happened this time?" 

"He won't let me wear what I want to the wedding. He's such a control freak!" Frodo was still shrieking. 

"What did you want to wear? A pink tuxedo or something?"

"God, no! A wedding dress." 

"You wanted to wear a wedding dress?" 

"Yes! And if I want to wear a wedding dress to my own wedding I should be allowed to." 

"Frodo, wedding dresses are exclusively for women and Dennis Rodman." 

"But it was a very masculine wedding dress!" 

"I think you're being unreasonable, Frodo." 

"You suck too! Thank god I'm not getting married to _you_." 

"I think you need to apologize to Sam."

"But whyyyyyyyyy," Frodo bleated like a goat, with like nine Y's, and also a comma instead of a question mark. 

"Because he's right, wearing a wedding dress is totally fucking kooky. And retarded."

"More kooky and retarded than the time I tried to be helpful and do my own laundry and I accidentally put too much detergent in the washing machine and it got all sudsy everywhere and it was an awful mess and Rosie had to clean it up?" 

"Yeah, a lot more kooky and retarded than that, because we didn't invite 300 people to come watch you fuck _that_ up."

"Good point. Gosh, Bilbo, I don't know what I was thinking." 

"Yeah, me neither, which goes for everything. Now go get out there and apologize to Sam so he'll take you back." 

"Okay! I will!" And Frodo saluted (?) and marched back to Sam to grovel. 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Sam was sitting on the couch, reading his dog-eared copy of _The Screwtape Letters_ and smoking a cigar. 

"Hola," said Frodo cheerfully. 

"Uh, hi?" said Sam. 

"Listen, I've been thinking." 

"Oh, no! Frodo, you _hate_ thinking." 

"You're right, I do hate thinking. But I also love you more and, um, I think you're right. It would be stupid to wear a wedding dress. I'm a boy, at least on the outside, and as members of proper society our perverted heathen wedding should reflect that. Will you take me back?" 

"Sure, as long as we can have make-up sex." 

"Well, duh! That's like the whole point of getting back together." 

"And after we can talk about where we're going on our honeymoon. I'm thinking Malaga!" 

"Please, Sam, you know I don't speak Mexican."

"Frodo, there is so much wrong with what you just said, I don't even know where to begin." 

"Let's begin with the fact that you're not having anything to do with planning our honeymoon. The honeymoon falls under the category of wedding-related activities, and we both agreed that I would plan the wedding and that you would keep your bulbous nose out of it." 

"Fine, fine. Where do you want to go?" 

"I was thinking Ibiza," Frodo said, pronouncing it 'Ih-_beeth_-uh.' 

"I thought you said you didn't speak 'Mexican.' " 

"Spanish, Sam. Ibiza is in Spain. They speak Spanish there."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Two weeks later Sam and Frodo were having another tiff. Sam was insisting that his relatives from Las Vegas be allowed to attend in whatever they chose to wear, while Frodo insisted on sending them a special note saying they weren't allowed to wear sequins. 

"Sam, even if you don't tell me I can, I'm going to mail them a note," Frodo whinnied. 

"No you won't, Mr. Frodo. Not if I can help it," Sam gruffed. 

"I just can't have sequins at my wedding. They just don't go with the theme." 

"If you ask me, the Sackville, Texas Bagginses have a much greater chance of wearing sequins than my Nevada relatives." 

"I know, I know. I already sent them a note." 

"But you waited to ask me if you could send my relatives a note? That is so thoughtful (and unlike) you." 

"No, actually I need their address from you." 

"I'll just pretend you were being thoughtful. Make-up sex?" 

"Yippee!"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Today, Frodo was busy screaming at Bilbo. He was upset because he just found out that Trixie Malloy was planning on wearing a white dress. This made Frodo oh-so-angry. "It's my wedding! No one is allowed to wear a white dress but me!" 

"You're not wearing a dress," Bilbo sighed snidely. 

"No one is allowed to wear a white dress _including_ me!" Bilbo nodded approvingly. "Is that so much to ask?" Frodo continued to moan. "This is my special day!" He sobbed pathetically into his silk scarf. 

"Every day is your special day," Bilbo noted. "And furthermore, Trixie looks hot in white." 

"I just want you to tell her not to wear white," Frodo cried drearily. "It's my special day and that's all I want." 

"I have an idea," Bilbo said, craftily outwitting his opponent. "Why don't we talk about throwing you a bachelor party?" 

"A bachelorette party?" 

"Yeah, whatever. It can have strippers. Do you like strippers?" 

"Male ones, yes." 

Bilbo made the most disgusted look of his life, but he managed to force out a lingering, "Great!"

"I'll have my friend Freddy make the arrangements, you know. He's so good at finding hot male strippers." 

"Okay, I'll let you do that. I'll be at the golf course if you need me." 

"Ciao, ciao!" Frodo pipped. 

Just then Sam came bursting into the door. "Frodo! I have the most marvelous news! Guess who is going to sing at our wedding!" 

"Oh my god! Who?" Frodo yipped excitedly. 

"Guess. I want you to guess." 

"Okay. Cher?" 

"No." 

"Whoopi Goldberg?" 

"Whoopi Goldberg? Does she even sing?" 

"Okay, if it's not Cher, and it's not the Whoopster, then that only leaves one person that it could possibly be. Oh my god..." Frodo was about to swoon out of excitement. 

"That's right," jeered Sam. 

They both shouted out in unison: "Peter Andre!" Frodo nearly fainted. 

"How did you convince him to sing at our wedding?" he asked. 

"I don't know," Sam shrugged. "I was in line at Dunkin' Donuts and he was there for some reason, buying a donut and a Coffee Coolata." 

"I'm not happy you went to Dunkin' Donuts," Frodo chided. "You're supposed to be on a special diet." 

"I'm sorry, but I just can't eat nothing but celery." 

"Of _course_ you can, it's negative calories." 

"How would you know? You're not a nutritionist." 

"Hey, I went to college!" 

"Yeah, but you never graduated." 

"Well, when I need to lose a lot of weight really quickly, I eat nothing but celery." This long conversation quickly turned into a three-hour rimming session on the dining room table, which commenced when Frodo said he wanted Sam to show him how he ate his donut.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX 

"Ding Dong!" Frodo shouted as he knocked on the door. 

Bilbo opened it and gave him a disapproving look. "Frodo, you live here. You don't need to knock. You even have a key." 

"Oh. I didn't..." Frodo trailed off, looking glumly at the floor. 

"What is it?" Bilbo asked, only half-concerned. 

"I'm just so nervous. Tomorrow is the big day. What if everything doesn't go exactly as planned? What if Peter Andre doesn't show up?" Frodo started to tear up. 

"He's already here, Frodo. There's no reason to worry. I was just smoking some pipeweed with him in the study. His delightful wife and their two children are baking pies with Trixie in the kitchen." 

"Baking pies? Children?" Frodo looked totally concerned. He hurriedly shuffled into the kitchen where he saw Trixie and an enormously busty woman drinking scotch out of beer steins. There was a baby sitting on the floor and a large, dark-complexioned, obese child butting its head against a wall. 

"Frodo!" Trixie cooed suggestively. "Meet my new friend — I mean, soul mate — Jordan. You'll just love her." 

"Hi?" Frodo said timidly. 

"Scotch?" Jordan asked. 

"Yes please!" Frodo shrieked. 

Two bottles of scotch later Frodo, Trixie, and Jordan were giggling like school girls, totally shnonkered.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The big day finally arrived. Frodo was decked out in his white suit, and Sam was wearing an off-black one, off-black being _the_ color of the season. Trixie Malloy was wearing a white dress, and the photographer, Grima Wormtongue, of Grima Wormtongue's Precious Memories Wedding Photographers, accidentally thought she was the bride. 

"Actually, I'm the bride," Frodo said huffily. "Although I'm not the bride, because I'm male, but I basically am. Do you see what I'm saying?" 

"So, this is a gay wedding?" Wormtongue asked. 

"Yes," Frodo confirmed. 

"Well, I'm against gay marriage, so I'd leave if you hadn't paid in full already." 

"Sorry," Frodo shrugged. "Just take a lot of hot picture of me, and don't take any pictures of Trixie Malloy." 

"Don't take any pictures of Trixie?" 

"Well, you can take pictures of Trixie, but not hot ones." 

"So, only take pictures of Trixie if she looks bad?" 

"Yes, exactly." 

"I'll see what I can do."

"Oh my god! Is that who I think it is?" shrieked Frodo. 

"Who? I don't even care," Wormtongue replied as he turned around and left. 

Just then a tall man with long blond hair approached Frodo. "Phrodo!" he cooed. "It's been so long." 

"Legolas. I didn't know you were invited," sneered Frodo. 

"Well, I wasn't exactly _invited_ per se, but when I read your marriage announcement in the Boston Globe I just knew I had to be here." 

"You bitch. You just want Sam back for yourself." 

"Why, I never. I'm happily engaged to Aragorn now." 

"That ho-bag? You know, you probably have genital warts now." 

"Honey, we all have genital warts. It's just part of the slutty lifestyle we lead." 

"Well, Legolas. It's been nice seeing you. Now get out before I call security." 

"Wait! I have something I need to tell you, about Sam." 

"I don't want to hear it. I'm not leaving him on the day of my wedding." 

"I wouldn't be so sure. You need to wait until you hear what I have to say. Phrodo, you may want to sit down to hear this." 

"Fine, tell me." Frodo sat cross-legged on the grass.

"Well," Legolas began, flipping his Malibu Barbie-perfect hair over his shoulder. "You should know that Sam proposed to me before he proposed to you." 

"I know," said Frodo. "Oh, shit, no I didn't!" 

"Uh huh," Legolas agreed. 

"Mmhmm." Frodo agreed back. 

"Mmhmm." 

"Mmhmm." 

"Mmhmm." 

"Mmhmm," Frodo concluded. "But how? You guys totally broke up way before gay marriage was legalized." 

"We were going to get a domestic partnership," Legolas zinged, as his sexy ass had a sampling of busboys in a new dimension. 

"Oh. Well, I don't really care about that," Frodo shockingly accepted like a normal person. "After all, I'm the one who's with him in the end. Now, ta-ta! I have a married to get!" 

"Did somebody say my name?" said Merry, who was walking by. 

"Stop doing that!" Frodo chided, shaking his fist in the air. "Sorry. I was busy saying 'toodles.' Toodles!" 

"Wait!" Legolas shrilled. "I have something else to cleverly reveal." 

"What?" Frodo asked, as he adjusted his mint-green cravat. "I'm due in makeup in six." 

"That's my ring."

"Look, buster. Stop trying to prevent this wedding. It's so not going to happen. I'd hurry your celluloid-y ass out of here before security guard Theoden gets you. Ciao, ciao!" 

"Fine." Legolas huffed. 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded partner?" the Unitarian minister asked Sam. 

"Wife," pipped Frodo, "I'm going to be his wife." 

The minister looked down his nose at Frodo sternly. 

"I do!" Sam guffawed. 

"Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?" the minister whinnied at Frodo. 

"Okay," purloined Frodo. 

"Um, you can't purloin your marriage," the minister mumbled. 

"Or can I?" Frodo replied. 

"Fine. I now pronounce you married." 

"Yay!" screamed Frodo and Sam in unison. Then they locked lips and sucked on each other's tongues for ten minutes, much to the disgust of the gathered guests. 

"Boo!" preambled Legolas. 

THE END


	7. Nevada

Frodo stepped into the casino slowly, swishing his hips as he walked. Every head in Caesar's Palace turned as he made his way to the bar. "One cosmopolitan, please." The bartender handed him the bright pink beverage and winked. 

"Always a pleasure to serve you, Mr. Baggins," he crooned. 

Frodo woke up. He was still in his trailer 30 miles outside of Las Vegas. The Ramblin' Palms Trailer Park wasn't exactly glamorous, but it was home. He had just taken a really nice nap. He had to attend his friend Ronaldo's party in a few hours. Maybe he'd meet some wealthy cowboy who would carry him into the sunset, he thought. More likely, though, he would spend the night in some corner sipping at his rum and coke nervously. 

Frodo wanted to be more outgoing but he always found social situations incredibly awkward. He hadn't been in a relationship for over two years and his last one ended in disaster. Frodo had found out that his boyfriend, Fred Burrows, had been cheating on him with none other than Trixie Malloy, the town slut. 

Frodo shuddered as he thought about it. He walked over to the sink and splashed some water on his face. He smelled his armpits to see if they smelled alright and they did. He put on a white button-down shirt and some black pants. This had been his uniform when he worked at the Steak & Shake, and there was a grease stain near the bottom of the shirt, but it was still the nicest outfit he owned. He combed his hair and walked out to his car. It was a powder-blue 1984 Ford Meteor GL. He had gotten it as a graduation gift from his deceased grandmother who didn't need it anymore now that she lived in a home. It still kind of smelled like old person. 

Frodo had bought a pine tree-shaped air freshener to hang from the rear-view mirror but it only made it worse. He drove for about half an hour before he reached Las Vegas. The lights were beautiful, as always. He couldn't park near the strip though because he didn't want to spend very much money, so he parked off a bit and took the brand new elevated train. It was so futuristic!

"Frodo!" Ronaldo bellowed loudly. Frodo wasn't used to attention being paid to him, so he sort of jumped. "Calm down, Fro," Ronaldo said soothing, patting Frodo on the back. "You don't want to have another accident, do you?" 

"I guess not, Ronnie." An accident was where all of Frodo's awful troubles had begun. One day, while performing his famous stage show at the Stardust, a wealthy oil tycoon had spilled a margarita on the catwalk. Frodo slipped and, soon after that, he was waking up Sunrise Hospital. 

"Son," the doctor on duty had said. "I'm so sorry to have to tell you this, but you'll never be able to dance again." Six pins in his leg and $34,000 in debt later — the Stardust didn't have health insurance — Frodo returned home a broken man. He'd had to sell his fancy apartment on the Strip and, obviously, couldn't keep his job. He'd always been taught to have a positive attitude, though, so when Fred Burrows had left his number as well as a generous tip at the Steak and Shake, Frodo began to think his life was going to turn around. Sadly, he was wrong.

"So, Frodo, what you been up to lately? Any of your old shenanigans?" Ronaldo bellowed. 

"No, I've been pretty busy with work." 

"You work at a Steak and Shake. It can't be that demanding." 

"Is that who I think it is?" Frodo almost whispered. 

"What did you say?" Ronaldo boisterously asked. 

"Is that Trixie Malloy?" Frodo was beginning to turn red, but not in a uniform manner. His face just looked extremely blotchy. 

"Wait, I can't see." Ronaldo cupped his hands around his mouth. "Trixie, is that you?" he shouted across the room. 

"No, don't..." Frodo was cut off. 

"Ronaldo, baby, I've been meaning to tell you what a wonderful party this was," Trixie sing-songed as she waltzed over to where Frodo and Ronaldo were standing. She ignored Frodo's presence altogether and positioned herself right in front of him, blocking off his access and sightlines to his beloved friend Ronaldo. She even spilled some of her strawberry margarita as she gesticulated wildly. 

Before long Ronaldo had seemed to have forgotten that Frodo was still behind Trixie. Frodo shrugged and went back to his seat in the corner where he nervously sipped on his rum and coke, pretending that his hot date was in the bathroom or something and he was just waiting for him to come back.

Sooner or later, Frodo's other best friend in the world walked up. This man was so interesting and important that Frodo was forbidden to ever call him by his real name, because compared to everyone else on the planet, Frodo was insignificant trash. Instead, he was known only as "Strider." 

"Hello, Frodo Baggins," said Strider. 

"Hey, Strider." 

"You look sort of glum today." 

"Oh, I do." Frodo put on his fakest smile. "I'm not glum. I'm super happy." 

"Why so glum?" Strider was known for sneering a lot and also, really pressing the issue. That was why his four-month term as mayor of Reno had been so successful. 

"Oh, Strider, it's awful!" Frodo cried, finally breaking down. "My life is miserable. Ever since that awful accident, I can't hold down a job, and Fred left me for Trixie Malloy! What am I going to do?" 

"Well, I might be able to help you."

"Really? I could really use some help." 

"Well, I have this friend..." 

"A friend?" 

"Yes. He's a wealthy casino mogul, and he's always been attracted to the biggest losers. I'm thinking about setting you two up." 

"Are you calling me a loser?" 

"No, not exactly. But I think you may be his type." 

"Well, is he _my_ type?" 

"Frodo, your life is too pathetic to have a type. He's not currently shacking with Trixie Malloy, and that should be good enough for you." 

"I guess you're right." 

"Look, I'll set it up. I'll call you later with the details. Really, Frodo, chin up. Things will get better soon." 

"No they won't. Nothing ever goes my way."

"What about that time you were a successful dancer at the Stardust, and you were dating Fred Burrows? Things were totally going your way then." 

"Yeah, but they're not _right now_, which is what most concerns me." 

"Well, we can't have it all go our way every time. And also, what goes up must come down. Speaking of which, how would you like to give me oral sex under a table?" 

Frodo didn't really want to, but he checked his watch and realized that he'd only been at the party for eight minutes and he was already bored, lonely, and miserable. Plus, with this ungodly period of celibacy, he was really getting out of practice with the fellatio. He consented. 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX 

A few weeks later, Frodo was dressed to the nines in his new tuxedo. Strider (who he later found out was married to a former topless dancer, who was suing him for emotional damages) had bought it for him on account of Frodo's being so willing re: the blow job at Ronaldo's party. Frodo wasn't sure if he should consider a new tux to be part of a major life turn-around, but at this point his life was so miserable he would cling to whatever pathetic scrap of hope he found lying half-covered by muck in the city sewer. 

Just then, a handsome man with what looked like real diamond cufflinks and a ridiculously theatrical cane came sauntering up to him. "Hello, sugar," he said in a very think Southern accent. He was wearing a white linen suit and had the most amazing teeth. Frodo thought teeth were a huge turn-on. 

"Are you my fairy godmother?" Frodo asked, immediately feeling stupid. The man in the white linen suit laughed. 

"Shucks, no!" He laughed gracefully, covering his mouth with one of his hands. "I'm your date. Merry's the name." 

"Uh, hi," said Frodo, suddenly feeling like the miserable trash that he was. Merry just drooled hungrily at him. Merry had always had excessive saliva issues. His mother had called it his "wolf problem." 

Frodo felt a bit awkward. "So, Merry? That's kind of a funny name. Merry like 'Ho! Ho! Ho!' or Mary like the virgin?" 

"You're a virgin? Yeehaw!" Merry began ahootin' and ahollerin' shamelessly. 

"You're not even listening to me." 

"Let's just skip dinner and go up to the hotel!" 

"Um, but I'm hungry?" Frodo half-asked. 

"Yeah, hungry for some lovin'!" 

"I don't know if I'm comfortable with this, Merry." 

"I'll give you 10 bucks." 

"It's a deal!" Frodo smiled awkwardly as Merry pinched his butt.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX 

Frodo stumbled back into his trailer the next morning feeling absolutely awful about himself. His new tuxedo was in shreds and so was his confidence. That was the last time he would ever go home with anyone who offered to pay him. Oh, the shame! Still, Frodo had given Merry his number and told — no, _begged _— him to call. "Maybe I'm destined to spend my life with that insanely creepy little man," Frodo thought. "Or maybe I'll slip on my way into the bathroom and blissfully die." Unfortunately, Frodo didn't fall, despite the fact that he was wearing his slipperiest socks. "Gosh darnit!" he thought. "Cheated by death again!" 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX 

Frodo was asleep naked in his second-hand La-Z-Boy, with the TV blaring _The Price is Right_, when the phone rang. "Plinko! I win showcase showdown!" he yelled, but then he realized it was just the phone ringing. "Oh," he said drearily. "Hello?" 

"Sugar, it's last night's date. How y'all doing?" 

"There's only one of me?" Frodo asked. He might be a pathetic waste of life but he had graduated third grade, so he know that 'y'all' was plural. 

"Sounds delicious." 

"Not really." 

"Well, I had a lovely time yesterday." 

"Yeah, so did I," Frodo lied, even though his rug burn was still bleeding. 

"What do you say I come pick you up?"

"Um. I guess that would be all right." 

"Good, I'm outside your door, y'all." Merry started hootin' and Frodo heard it through the aluminum can-thin walls of his trailer." 

"How did you find my trailer?" Frodo asked, suddenly fearing for his life. 

"I followed you home yesterday. Now come outside. I'm horny." 

"I don't know about this. This is a little creepy, even for me." 

"I'll give you $11 this time." 

"It's a deal!" Frodo yelped as he jumped up, slammed down the phone and raced to the door. He opened it up to find that Merry had brought company. "Who's this?" Frodo asked, a bit taken aback. 

"Frodo, meet Pippin," Merry said as he groped Pippin's breast implant.

"Merry, I know I said I had fun yesterday, but I was lying. You're an awful person, and sex with you was painful and humiliating." 

"Physically painful, or emotionally painful?" asked Pippin. 

"Sort of both," Frodo confessed, eyeing the dead geranium on his "porch," which was really a wooden plank on cinder blocks. 

"Awwwwwww," said Pippin enthusiastically. "That's my Merry!" 

"YEEHAW!" crowed Merry. 

"So, like, what are you?" Frodo asked the erstwhile Pippin. "Are you a boy, or a girl, or a what?" 

"A girl," Pippin said coyly. 

"A biological girl?" 

"Why don't you take her for a test drive and wager a guess?" Merry said. Pippin giggled awkwardly. 

"Ew, that is sick." 

"There's good money in it if'n you guess correctly!" Merry said, pulling a gun out of his holster and firing it off aimlessly. 

"How much money?" Frodo asked suspiciously. 

"How much money you need?" Merry asked. Pippin had gone cross-eyed. 

"Look, who the hell are you?" Frodo whined. "Why is this happening to me? Why does everyone think I'm just some cheap toy who can be used and abused and treated like garbage?" Frodo broke into messy tears on his astroturf lawn. 

"Merry, he seems really upset," said Pippin. "Maybe we should try to help him." Pippin sidled over to Frodo and put one arm and one incredibly droopy breast around him. Frodo shivered and pulled away. "Get away from me! I'm leaving!" 

"Merry, I don't think he likes me," Pippin said as he/she teared up. 

"By the way, can I have ride?" Frodo half-whispered. 

"No!" Pippin and Merry shouted in unison as they turned around in a huff and stomped off toward Merry's Cadillac Escalade. 

Frodo turned around and ran into his trailer. He was in tears. He pushed some old magazines and a dirty bowl that still had some Easy Mac crusted on it off the kitchen counter. A cockroach scuttled away. 

This disgusted him, so he crawled into bed and picked up the phone. He punched in some numbers. 

"Las Vegas County Prison, may I help you?" a nasally voice on the other end answered. 

"I need to talk to my uncle Bilbo!" Frodo wailed. 

"Is he a prisoner at this here establishment?" 

"Yes, he's in for drug possession." 

"Well, he has to call you. You can't call him. Also, looking at this list, his phone privileges have been revoked. Seems he has gotten in a little scuffle with one of our guards, Gandalf." 

"No! That's awful. I really need to talk to him." 

"Well, sorry dear. I can't help you. You can always come down to the prison and visit him." 

"Yeah? And how am I supposed to do that? My car broke down." 

"Not my problem." With that, the phone call was over. Frodo heard a loud click and let out a giant, over-emoted sigh.

Frodo walked outside miserably. His whole life was falling apart! He had no idea why -- he'd never done anything to deserve this cruel fate, except maybe for run over a gypsy, who was also a witch. But surely it couldn't have been that. Who cares about gypsies? 

Frodo knew what he had to do. He'd get in his car, and drive down to the casinos, and put all of his life's savings on red. Or maybe black. Whatever, like it mattered. Either he was going to strike it rich once and for all, or he would shoot himself in the face, just like the hobo who sat outside work always suggested when Frodo didn't give him a nickel. 

Downtown, Frodo shuffled miserably into the nearest casino. He rolled up to the roulette table and the attendant, a straw-haired man with his sleeves rolled up, smiled at him. "Evening, sir," he said cheerfully. "Care to play?" 

"Yes," Frodo said sadly. He placed his money on the table. 

"That's an awful lot of money, sir," said the casino guy. 

"It's my life's savings," Frodo muttered. 

"That's not a lot of life's savings at all." 

"Look, do you want my $540 or not?"

"What's your name?" the attendant asked. 

"Isn't it against the rules for you to ask?" Frodo replied. 

"No. It isn't. I'm just curious." 

"Well, it's Frodo." 

"Well, Mr. Frodo..." 

"No! Frodo's my first name. What's yours?" 

"Sam. Sam Gamgee," Sam replied. Then he whispered, "It's my first day working at this here casino." 

"Oh, I can kind of tell." 

"Really, Mr. Frodo." 

"Yeah. I used to work at a casino. I was a big success." 

"Were you a blackjack dealer? I always thought they were so glamorous." 

"No, I was a showgirl. But a boy, you know." 

"I've never seen a male showgirl. Why do you say used 'ta?" 

"Well, I had a bit of an accident, and now I can't dance any more." 

"That's a sad story, Mr. Frodo. So, now you're here gambling your life savings away?" 

"Well, yes. It's reached that point, if you know what I mean." 

"My boss would probably fire me if I told you this, but I think you're making an awful mistake. You need this money." 

"No. I don't. I just need to know if I someone is on my side." 

"I'll be on your side.

"But you don't even know me," Frodo said rationally. "For all you know I'm an alcoholic homosexual who gambled his life away at the track, and rapes puppies." 

"Are you?" 

"No, yes, no, and sort of." 

"Well, that's good enough for me," Sam shrugged. "You seem decent enough to me, and I was an Eagle Scout, which is highly reputable." 

"Well, Sam, what time do you get off?" 

Sam checked his watch. "About forty minutes from now. If you wait in the lobby and don't spend your life's savings I'll be happy to buy you a drink after my shift." 

"I think I would really enjoy that." 

"So would I." 

THE END


	8. Maine

"Sam, do you want some more lobster bisque?" Frodo asked. 

"No, thank you. I'm so sick of lobster bisque. Do we have anything else to eat?" Sam replied. 

Frodo and Sam were sitting in the breakfast nook of their seaside home in Maine. They had lived here for about six years after escaping the hectic life they led in New York City. Sam had started a landscaping business and Frodo stayed home trying to write his novel, which never seemed to near completion. 

Frodo looked in the fridge. "Well, we have some leftover lobster roll, lobster cakes, lobster sticks, and some of that lobster frittata I made for breakfast yesterday." 

"Anything without lobster?" 

"Well, we have some mineral water." 

"Good, give me some of that." 

Frodo poured Sam some mineral water in a glass and handed it to him. 

Sam took a sip and dramatically spit it out, spraying mineral water everywhere. "Is this lobster-flavored mineral water?" Sam asked indignantly. 

Frodo examined the label. "Whoops. I guess it is. Sorry."

"I had no idea they even _made_ lobster-flavored water." 

"Well, I did, because I've invested $10,000 in this company. So drink up, Sam!" This news made Sam throw up a little in his mouth. 

"Why would you do something so stupid?" Sam asked after washing the throw-up taste out of his mouth with plain-old, sane, lemon-flavored water. "That is so unlike you. Usually you're so rational." 

"I know. I guess I'm just going through a crazy phase. I'm at a really difficult part of writing this book." Frodo's soon-to-be completed novel, _Why the Heart is Fond of Loving and Aching in the City of Despair of My Heart_, a gay beach thriller about a couple who moves to Maine and discovers a rent boy left for dead in their dumpster out back. Also, it had a heavy-handed motif of the Buddha appearing in inappropriate places. Frodo thought this was very deep; Sam found it simultaneously pretentious and perturbing. Because of this opinion Frodo no longer asked (or even allowed) Sam to read his drafts. 

Frodo's first, nonfiction book, _Homoeroticism in Tolkien_, had been such a smashing success that it had prompted him to sell the Park Slope condo he shared with Sam and move out to Maine for some reason. Looking back on the decision, neither of them knew why, but it happened to coincide with their friend Ronaldo's birthday weekend, when Pippin had accidentally sold them some marijuana that was laced with PCP. 

"That was a fairly intense weekend," Sam liked to comment. 

"Shut up, Sam."

Frodo was beginning to tire of Sam's constant negativism. Nothing seemed to satisfy him anymore. That's why the previous weekend Frodo had secretly driven into Boston to visit his favorite lingerie store, Grima Wormtongue's Lingerie Pit Stop. 

"Hi there," Grima had said when Frodo walked in the door. Some mechanical chimes had signaled his arrival with a rousing rendition of "Barbara Ann." 

"Hello, I need some very sexy panties. I mean briefs. Better yet, make it a thong," Frodo replied. 

"We've got lots of thongs. What kind of thong do you want?" 

"Do you have the kind that is an elephant, where the penis is the trunk?" 

"Yes, but we only have it in large and extra large. You don't look like an extra large." 

"Are you saying I have a small penis? Because let me inform you, you are dead wrong. I can have at least 15 people here in five minutes who could tell you just how wrong you are!" Frodo was beginning to turn red with rage. 

"No, no! Of course not! Those are for fat people and you, sir, are very skinny. We have the kind that looks like a little tuxedo in your size. That model is very popular." 

"Are you calling me fat?" 

"No." 

"Trashy?" 

"No!" 

"Large pubic mound?" 

"Heavens no!"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX 

So Frodo had planned a special surprise for Sam. That evening, he slipped into his new undies and closed the bedroom curtains. He lit several vanilla-scented candles, and put a bottle of 1992 Bollinger Grande Annee champagne on ice. This was Frodo's favorite champagne, for the indiscriminately superficial reason that he thought the bottle was sort of sexy. Frodo also put out a plate of chocolate-covered strawberries, and put on some seductive tunes. 

When Sam came home from work, the song stylings of Barry Manilow were swirling around like so many Barry Manilowish swirls lost on the breeze. "What the hell is this?" Sam asked, trolloping into the bedroom. 

"Hey, handsome," Frodo purred from the bed, doing his sexy legs-in-the-air thing. "You look like you've had a long, hard day." 

"You bet I have," Sam agreed, kicking off his shoes. "I had to pot a plant, and then I had to pot another plant. Oh, it was just awful." 

"What sort of plant was it?" Frodo asked, tonguing a strawberry. 

"Um, a fern," Sam hee-hawed. 

"Oh, yes. Ferns are so hot. Will you pot me like a fern, big boy?" At this, Sam burst out laughing. "I hate you!" Frodo cried, throwing a shoe across the room at Sam's head. 

"What?" 

"I'm trying to spice up our lives, and all you wannabe is my last time lover." 

"Huh? Frodo, look, I'm tired, and I need to take a shower. Shouldn't you be finishing up your novel so we can move back to the city?" 

"Oh!" Frodo exclaimed, tearing off his tuxedo thong and letting his penis flop out like so many floppy penises flopping out of someone's underwear. "So that's what this is about!" 

"What is what about? Why are you acting so crazy?" 

"You want crazy?" Frodo babbled. "I'll show you crazy!"

"You are so hot when you're crazy!" Sam half shouted. 

"I know, I know," Frodo retorted.

Sam pounced, tackling Frodo to the floor. The thick shag carpeting in their bedroom engulfed his tender limbs. Frodo moaned deeply. Sam grunted abruptly. "I'm going to fuck you like I've never fucked you before," Sam whispered into Frodo's ear. 

"Do me!" Frodo moaned. 

Sam briskly unbuttoned his fly, pulled down his pants and threw them across the room, where they landed on a decorative lobster trap draped in an antique fishing net that Frodo had thought would give the place some much-needed charm. 

Sam pulled a condom out of Frodo's purse, which was conveniently on the floor next to them. "Glow-in-the-dark?" Sam asked, a bit surprised. 

"Ooooh! Turn off the lights! I want to see if they actually work." 

"It's the middle of the day, it won't make a difference. Now, let's get to it." 

"Yipee!" Frodo shrieked.

"Now, what would you like today? The usual?" Sam asked. 

"No, I'm not in the mood for that today. How about the second-most-usual?" 

"Is that the thing with the ... ?" 

"Pass the lobster-flavored lube." 

"What?" 

"Nothing." 

"Listen, Frodo," Sam said gently, picking at the lint between his toes. "You have to tell me what you want me to do here. I'm only—" he counted on both hands, "—one man." 

"Well, I was just reading this anthology of gay erotic fiction the other day," Frodo said seductively. "And there was a story about corn." 

"There was a story about porn? In an anthology of porn? How post-modern." 

"No, you misheard me. There was a story about _corn_. One of the main characters — actually, the only main character — was a farmhand in Iowa or something, and he used an ear of corn to..." 

"No! Absolutely not!" 

"Well, what do you want to do, then? I think my penis is going flaccid with all this deliberation. Sam, I hate to say it, but..." 

"But what?" 

"I think we're suffering from an urgent case of LBD." 

"Long-horned beetle dancing?" 

"No, Sam. Lesbian bed death."

A deep silence hung in the air. It seemed to Sam as if the room were suddenly made of molasses. A tear streamed down his right cheek. "Frodo..." he mumbled. 

"Yes, Sam?" Frodo was very near tears himself. 

"How could you say such a thing?" 

"Well, it's true, my love. Our sex life has gotten ... well, very dull." 

"But, Frodo, I bought you that sex toy recently. That sure spiced things up." 

"Sam, I don't think pink condoms count as a sex toy. Anyway, I'm bored with what goes on in the bedroom." 

"Well, what would you like me to do?" 

"Corn." 

"No." 

"See, you're always so negative. You're shooting down all of my ideas all of the time. Why can't you just stick some corn in my..." 

"FRODO! I had a very traumatizing experience with corn once." 

"Care to share?" 

"I'd rather not, actually." 

"C'mon. I'm like your soul mate or whatever. You can tell me. I promise I won't tell anyone." 

"Even our gardener, Saruman? I know how you love to gossip with him." 

"Even Saruman. I promise." 

"Okay, I'll tell you my traumatizing experience with corn." 

"Yipee!" Frodo yelped inappropriately.

"Once, when I was a kid, and by a kid I mean a teenager, and by teenager I mean 22, I went with my father to a farming convention in Calgary at the end of June. Also staying at the Radisson was a man by the name of Bill Ferny, who tried to sell me a delicious puppy—" 

"Delicious?" 

"—but I didn't buy one. My sister did, and boy was she in for a shock, because the stupid thing reproduced like lightening." 

"Lightening doesn't reproduce." 

"ANYWAY, also at the convention was Fred Burrows. The third important party staying at the convention was several storage closets full of corn. Long story short, I opened one of the storage closets and I got a humongous load of dead puppies dropped on me." 

"How did that work out?" 

"Well, it turned out that Burrows had poisoned all the corn and, at the rate that Ferny's gerbils—" 

"Puppies." 

"Like it matters, but okay. At the rate the little rats were reproducing, they had gotten into the storage closets and eaten the poison corn. Hence all the puppies were dead, and I never want to think about corn again. Also, you could lose part of a husk up there or something." 

"You hold on with the husk," Frodo enlightened. 

"Yeah, whatever. Not doing it." 

"Well, Sam, if you want to know why the spark is dead, it's because you tell me pointless stories that are actually _Star Trek_ rehashes instead of molesting my tight asshole with a ripe ear of corn. And anyway, 'Space Seed' is a better episode to rip off. Good night." 

"But it's mid-afternoon!" 

"Eh."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Days later Sam was in the garden, well, gardening, when he heard an excited yelp from inside the house. 

"Sam!" shrieked Frodo from inside. 

"What?" Sam yelled back. 

"Shut the hell up!" screamed their crotchety neighbor, the Widow Rumble. "I'm trying to take a nap!" 

"Sorry, Mrs. Rumble," Sam apologized. "Ugly old bitch," he muttered under his breath. 

"I heard that!" the Widow Ruble replied. 

"SA-AM!" Frodo shrieked again. 

Sam put down his trowel and stomped inside, tracking mud all over the new bright white carpeting Frodo had recently had installed in the mudroom. "What?" he annoyedly pouted when he finally reached Frodo, who was lying naked on his chaise lounge with a big stack of papers covering his nether regions. 

"I finally finished the first draft of my book. Now, let's have sex," Frodo said, tossing the papers on the floor carelessly. 

"I'm not in the mood." 

"WHAT!?" Frodo howled. 

"I just can't turn it on like that, Frodo. I have to be in the mood." 

"What kind of man are you?" 

"Now there you go insulting my masculinity again."

"I am _not_ insulting your masculinity," Frodo slithered. 

"Yes, you are. When you say, 'What kind of man am I," you are begging the question that there is something lacking about my masculinity." 

"Look, Sam, I know what it means to beg the question and furthermore, yes, I am insulting your masculinity." 

"Then why would you say you weren't?" 

"I don't know, but I do know that I'm sick of you never giving me the sort of sexual satisfaction I want and deserve. All I ask is that you indulge my fantasies. Is that so much to ask?" 

"Corn, Frodo. You wanted me to stick a vegetable in your bottom. That is really a lot to ask." 

"No, asking if I could stick corn in _your_ butt is a lot to ask." 

"Why would you want to put anything in _my_ butt?"

"I don't know, Sam. Maybe you just have me stereotyped as this sissy little nelly-boy size queen, but maybe sometimes I want to give it to you, huh? Huh? HUH? **HUH**?" 

"That hardly makes any sense! This argument was started because you wanted me to rape your asshole with an ear of corn, and now you're angry at me because I'm inferring that you like having things put up there. Furthermore, I've been with you for _years_. Don't you think I would know a thing of two about your likes and dislikes?" 

"I hate you!" Frodo yelped, and skipped out of the room, his semi-erect little penis flopping in the breeze. 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"We're not here to make judgments," said Dr. Boromir, Maine's hippest couples therapist. "We're here to find a solution to our problems. Frodo, would you like to begin?" 

"Sam hates me!" Frodo shrieked, tearing at his clothes as his black veil trembled with rage. 

"See, this is what I'm talking about," Sam gruffed. "Why are you dressed like a widow? I'm not _dead_." 

"I wouldn't care if you died!" 

"All right, everyone, let's calm down. Frodo, we'll come back to you. Sam, why don't you tell me your problems?" 

"Well, for one thing, he told our gardener my corn story after I specifically told him not to."

"That's not true!" Frodo interrupted. 

"Frodo, Saruman wore a wire. A wire!" Sam shouted. 

Dr. Boromir snorted loudly. "Excuse me, you two. I think you both have a lot of issues. Sam, you're a little too vanilla and you don't trust Frodo at all. And Frodo, you're too kinky and you don't care about how Sam feels about anything." 

"Why would I care about what he thinks?" Frodo impertinated. 

"See?" Sam said. 

"Whatever, man," Frodo answered.

"Okay. I don't usually say this, but I don't want to be your doctor anymore. The two of you disgust me," Dr. Boromir sneered. 

"You can't do that. We're paying you $200 an hour," Frodo high-pitchedly screamed. 

"It had better be refundable," Sam shouted as he waived his fist in the air. 

"Sorry, no refunds," Dr. Boromir snorted. 

"WHAT?" Frodo and Sam shouted angrily in unison. 

"You heard me," Dr. Boromir politely reminded them. 

"Let's get him," Frodo whispered to Sam. Sam nodded in agreement. 

They both suddenly pounced on Dr. Boromir, pinning him to the ground.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Well, that was pointless," Sam said sullenly, wiping Boromir's blood off of his face. 

"I know, I know," Frodo moaned. "I still hate you just as much as I did before. What are we going to do?" 

"I hate to say it, Frodo, but maybe it's time we broke up." 

"No!" Frodo gasped. "I'll never find anyone else I ever loved ever again ever!" 

"But you just said you hated me." 

"I don't hate you. I'm just sick of your negativity, and your lack of having sex with me ever." 

"I wouldn't call five times a week 'ever.' I actually think that's pretty good for a couple that's been together for seven years." 

"Well, I think it sucks!" Frodo crowed. "I want to work it out. We could try having an open relationship." 

"How would that fix anything?" 

"I would be able to get the sex I need elsewhere. You know, I'd put an ad online: 'Corn fetishist seeks same. Only tops need apply. Sorry, no bisexuals.' " 

"What's wrong with bisexuals?" 

"I don't want to talk about it." 

"Come on," Sam encouraged. "We need to have better communication. You should tell me." 

"Well, all right."

"So, tell me," Sam nudged on. 

"Okay, so, I once slept with this dude. I think his name was Gamle or Gamble or something like that." 

"Gandalf?" 

"Eww, no. I would remember if I slept with Gandalf." A look of sudden realization crossed Frodo's face, highlighting his petite features and gigantic eyes. "Gimli! His name was Gimli. Now I remember." 

"Oh, I don't know this person." 

"It's better that you don't. Anyway, this Gimli character, he was a bisexual. At first it didn't bother me, but then I got to thinking." 

"Really?" Sam looked doubtful. 

Frodo gave him a playful punch. "Yes, really. I just couldn't understand why anybody as hot as Gimli would be into girls too. The whole concept started to bug me. Then, when we were in the heat of passion, right before he climaxed, instead of screaming out _my_ name, he screamed 'Oh, Cindy!' and I was so disgusted." Frodo started sniffling at that point. "I just knew he was picturing somebody else while he fucked me and that's never happened to me before. It especially bothered me that he was imagining me as a woman." 

"That is truly an interesting story, Fro Fro. Why would anybody ever need to imagine you were anything other than your hot self? I just don't get it." Sam said as he made eyes at Frodo, quite obviously. 

"Did listening to that story make you as horny as telling it made me?" Frodo preambled as he winked knowledgeably. 

"Hell, yea,." Sam yelped as he ripped open the button fly on his Diesels and moved toward Frodo sensuously.

"Oh, Sam!" Frodo sighed. "But we can't have sex in this parking lot." 

"What about the car?" Sam asked as he rubbed his crotch against Frodo's leg. 

"That's great." They got in the car. "Oh, Sam, do me!" Frodo cried, tearing off his black shirt to reveal a perfectly hairless chest. 

"Aw, you shaved for me?" Sam asked. 

"First of all, no, I waxed. And second of all, I didn't wax for you. I wax for _me_. Now, what have we got for lube?" 

"I dunno," Sam shrugged. "Uh, we've got spit. Lots of wonderful spit." 

"Excuse me, Sam, but my anus is a delicate little blossom. I think I deserve something a little more expensive than spit." 

"Wait, wait, wait. First you want me to molest your asshole with corn, or something, and now you're too good for spit?" 

"Okay, fine. I'm going to burst in like, four seconds. Just stick it in." Sam did. 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX 

Back at home, Frodo ordered Chinese food from the only Chinese food place in their town, which happened to be called "Mandalay Bay." 

"Why Mandalay?" Sam asked as he silently passed up the shrimp in lobster sauce. 

"I think they were trying to get 'Mandarin' or something. Are you going to eat your egg roll?" 

"What's it made out of?" 

"Fried lobster."

"Pass."


	9. Indiana

Frodo gingerly poked at the soil in his victory garden. Nothing was growing, nothing at all. "Harrumph," he harrumphed, greatly frustrated at the lack of fecundity in the rich Indiana loam he had tended so carefully. "Why won't anything grow?" he asked the empty garden. 

Inside, Bilbo was smoking on his pipe and sitting on a rocking chair with a shawl over his lap. He had the radio turned way up, because he was hard of hearing. Frodo walked in and joined him. "Nothing will grow in that stupid garden. How am I supposed to help the war effort when I can't even grow a stupid cabbage?" Frodo asked, half-rhetorically. 

"WHAT?" Bilbo yelled loudly. 

"Never mind." 

"I can't hear you. SPEAK UP!" Bilbo shouted. Frodo just shrugged and went into the kitchen. He sighed a little and then picked up a newspaper. He looked to see how the war was going. He couldn't wait until it was over so that all of the hot young men would come back, especially his friends Merry and Pippin. He missed them a lot. It didn't seem like the war was going to be over anytime soon. Until then he was just going to have take all of his frustration out on his Victory Garden, which at the moment wasn't even close to victorious.

"Bilbo?" Frodo asked. 

"Yeah, what?" Bilbo sputtered. 

"I'm going into town to catch a newsreel." 

"Bring back some carrots for the stew." 

"Why can't we eat the carrots out of my Victory Garden?" Frodo moaned. 

"Trust me, no one is ever going to eat anything out of your Victory Garden." 

"Is that supposed to be a double-entendre?" 

Bilbo laughed. Then he stopped laughing and became very grave. "No, it's not. I'm being totally sincere. You're a horrible failure, Frodo. You got rejected from the army, and you can't grow an edible vegetable. You'll never be a decent husband, and you'll never find one, either." Bilbo threw his bottle of scotch at Frodo's head. "Now bring me back my carrots by dusk or you'll be sorry!" Frodo sniffled and shuffled out of the house. 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX 

At the theater, Frodo paid his nickel and got a popcorn. He sat down in the back row, but it reminded him of how he and Fred had used to neck back there before Fred's plane had been shot down over Rouen. Frodo tried to cry silently, but he couldn't contain himself. Loud wailing bellowed noisily from the back row. Some people turned around to gawk, but most of the people watching the newsreel before the movie were wailing loudly themselves. 

After the movie, Frodo walked back to his home. He passed the fenced-in wasteland generally known as his Victory Garden on his way in. Honestly, it did look a little sad. How was he going to find a way to grow vegetables? 

Just then, Frodo noticed a stocky teenager examining his vegetables, or lack there of. "Excuse me!" Frodo whinnied. 

"Oh, sorry," the handsome stranger replied. 

"Who are you? I hope you're not planning on stealing any vegetables out of my Victory Garden." 

"What vegetables?" the stocky hunk replied. 

"Umm..." 

"The name's Sam." 

"I'm Frodo. Aren't you too handsome to be not fighting in Europe right now?" Frodo batted his eyelashes, flirting unabashedly. 

"I'd like to think so, but I'm only 16. Still in high school, sir." 

"Oh, I see. So why are you lingering around my Victory Garden, you pretty young thing?" 

"Well, I consider myself an amateur gardener, and I was thinking of ways I could help this sorry plot of land." 

"Oh, really? I could think of a few ways..."

"Yes?" Sam asked unproductively. "Tell me about a few ways to shape up this vegetable patch." 

"To be honest," Frodo admitted, "I haven't got any." 

"Well, if you ever need some help, let me know." Frodo flinched, and when he flinched (as was his luck) every one of the correct muscles seemed to flinch as well, making him particularly attractive, which he was not. He was unusually skinny and lacked any bulk whatsoever; he also had thin, longish black hair in an age when light and short were in. His skin was the color of rotten milk, and he had voluptuous, rosy-colored lips — not necessarily from birth, mind you, but Frodo generally employed his lips often (unsurprisingly) and (surprisingly) carefully. Sam, having thin, pale lips, was much more in-vogue. Of course, nobody in suburban Indiana knew this _except_ for Frodo. He subscribed to Vogue and, as it happened, The New Yorker. 

"Tell me," he said dryly, observing the youth's well-defined upper arms. "Where do you live, Sam?" 

"I beg your pardon, sir, but will you first answer me a couple of questions?" 

"Sure," Frodo said flippantly. 

"How old are you?" 

"Well!" Frodo snapped. "I knew we'd get here eventually. I'm 28, Sam, not that you are _ever_ permitted to discuss that fact again." They both smiled wryly. 

"And why aren't _you_ in Europe or, failing that, Japan?" Now Frodo smiled sadly. 

"Very interesting, Sam. The answer may upset you, so you might want to cover your ears. No? Well, all right then."

"Well?" Sam said as he crossed his arms. 

"Well, indeed, Stan..." 

"Sam. It's Sam." 

"Yes, anyway, the reason I'm not in the army is because they wouldn't take me." 

"Why? Do you have multiple sclerosis or something?" 

"Heavens no! They seemed to think I had some mental issues that made it inappropriate for me to be around so many men all the time, if you know what I mean." Frodo winked awkwardly. 

"I'm sorry, I don't." 

"That's good. Now help me with my garden." 

"Okay, I've got nothing else to do. Where do you want me to start?" 

"Well, you can start by removing your shirt. Ha! Ha!" 

Sam sexily stripped. His bulging pectorals made Frodo almost forget about Sam's equally bulging gut. "What else?" 

Frodo though for a moment. "I think my back area needs to be hoed."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

A few hours later, Frodo popped back into the house. "I'm ba-ack!" he chimed. 

"Do you have my carrots?" Bilbo pestered. 

"Um..." Frodo looked down at the one sturdy carrot he held in his grubby paw. "No." 

"Gosh darnit, you useless little..." 

"I'll be in my room, bye!" Frodo ran into his room and slammed the door. 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX 

Over dinner, sans carrots, Frodo squawked cheerfully. "I met a boy today," he said. 

"Oh, great," Bilbo snidely whiplashed. 

"No, I mean that literally. I met a boy." 

"Oh, even better. How old is this boy?" 

"I don't know, 12 or so." 

Bilbo almost spit out his carrotless stew. "Twelve!" 

"Okay, he's 16." 

"That's still illegal!" 

"Is it?" 

"I actually don't know." 

"Well, it's good that you can't get arrested if you don't know the law, because I'm meeting him at a coffee shop tomorrow afternoon." 

"Actually, ignorance isn't an excuse. You _can_ get arrested if you don't know the law." 

"Oh well."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The next day, Frodo rode his bike into downtown Lafayette, Indiana. He gazed longingly at the new Amana refrigerators in the window of the appliance store. 'Those could probably keep carrots fresh for months!' he thought. He locked his bike to a parking meter and went into the coffee shop. Sam was already there. 

Sam waved gingerly. "Frodo! You're here! I didn't know if you'd come." 

"Really? I thought for sure you'd be a no-show." 

"I told my pa I needed some math tutoring, so if anyone asks you're my math tutor. Capesce?" 

"Sure. I'll tutor you anytime. So, what's up, you stud?" 

"Not much. I bought some seeds for your garden." 

"Seeds? You need seeds? I had no idea," Frodo said slowly. "Tell me more." 

"What do you want to hear?" Sam was getting sultry. 

"Actually, can you show me?" Frodo batted his eyelashes. 

"Let's go to your victory garden. I can show you there, where it's nice and private." 

"Let's go."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Back at the victory garden, Frodo swooned in ecstasy after hours of vigorous, sweaty activity. "I never thought it would be so perfect!" he chimed. 

"I know," said Sam. 

"Who knew you could plant that thing so deep?" 

"Not me." 

"Anyway, it's beautiful," Frodo said sweetly, petting his new tomato plant. "And these rows are so straight!" 

"I'm just glad you liked it," Sam agreed. "Well, it's time to be getting home. I've got algebra homework." 

"Wait!" Frodo cried. "Let's do something!" 

"Um, what did you have in mind?" Sam asked. 

"You look hot and sweaty," said Frodo. "So let's take a shower!" Sam gave him a weird look. "One after the other," he added sheepishly. 

"It's been great, Mr. Frodo, but I've got to go. Give your regards to your uncle for me."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"I'm so fucking disappointed. Why won't that piece of hot ass just jump me already?" Frodo yelled as he slammed the door loudly. 

Bilbo craned his neck around the corner, grabbing his large brass earhorn from the carpet. "What was that? I couldn't hear a word you said, young Frodo." 

"I said, I'm so lucky and pointed. I won't have a piece or pass to jump already.' " Frodo slyly covered up. 

"Oh, okay. Make me some stew. Did you bring home those parsnips?" 

"Yes, just take them. I have a feeling I won't be needing any cylindrical vegetables for awhile." 

"Great," Bilbo grumbled. 

Just then someone knocked on the door. "Who is it?" Frodo sing-songed. 

"It's me, the Widow Rumble. I brought over some rutabagas from my victory garden." 

"Wow, those are huge." Bilbo gawked as he opened the door. "I wish Frodo's rutabagas were as big as yours." 

"My rutabagas are plenty large, thank you very much." Frodo nipped. 

"Frodo, go put these in the stew." Bilbo chided. 

"Is that even what you do with rutabagas?" Frodo asked. Bilbo and Frodo both turned to the Widow Rumble expectantly. 

"What are you looking at me for?" the Widow snapped, "I have no idea what you do with rutabagas."

"They're a root vegetable," said an annoying little voice behind the Widow. "They're delicious boiled or steamed, or, my personal favorite, mashed with a little olive oil for flavor." 

"Sam!" Frodo cried, nearly jumping into the boy's arms. "I had no idea you knew so much about rutabagas!" 

"Hello," said Sam awkwardly, with just a hint of 'what are you doing in my arms?' "I'm here to water the cabbage." 

"Oh, boy," said Bilbo. "I think the widow and I will have a cup of tea and discuss the war effort." 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"They're totally having sex," Frodo said crudely as Sam followed him out to the garden. " 'The war effort' is like his euphemism for a blow job." 

"You mean like with a hair dryer?" 

"No." Frodo and Sam looked at each other awkwardly for a moment. "Look, Sam, you're a handsome young fellow." 

"Thank you," Sam said shyly. "Rose thinks so too." 

"Well, it's nice of your sister to compliment you like that." 

"Rose isn't my sister. She's my girlfriend." 

"What?" Frodo asked. "You have a girlfriend? Since when?" 

"About a year. After I finish school I'm gonna join the army, and when I get back we're going to get married." 

"Have you ever heard of inversion, Sam?" 

"Is that a mathematical principle, sir?" 

"Not quite."

"Hee hee," Sam giggled. 

"What's that for, sexy?" Frodo was heavily putting on the moves. 

"I just think it's funny how hard you are trying to seduce me," Sam said flatly. 

"Whatever are you talking about? Are you coming on to me, young man?" 

"Oh, come on, your flirting is as obvious as Hitler's moustache is stupid." 

"Umm..." 

"Don't worry. It worked." Sam said as he pounced on top of Frodo, tearing off his shirt in one brutal motion. 

"My t-shirt!" Frodo yelped. 

"You won't be needing that anymore." 

"Oh, take me, you big strong man, take me and take me now." 

"Yes, sir, Mr. Frodo."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The next day, Sam didn't come to water the vegetables. "So, how are things with your little friend?" Bilbo asked awkwardly over dinner. 

"Bad," Frodo pouted. "We made it, and now I think he hates me." 

"I know what you mean," Bilbo confered. "The Widow Rumble -- or, as I call her, Agnes -- told me that she wants to see other men. Other men! There are no other men. Except for you. And high schoolers. Everyone else is dead, or in France." 

"Or Japan." 

"Yes, or Japan. But anyway, my problem is more worthy of complaint than yours." 

"You're right, it is." Just as Frodo was about to ladle some delicious stew -- new and improved thanks to Sam's alfalfa sprouts -- the doorbell rang. "I'll get it!" Frodo cried. He waddled to the door. "Sammypoo!" he snivelled. 

"Hi, Mr. Frodo." 

"I love you! I mean, how are you!"

"Um, I'm fine." 

"Those alfalfa sprouts were to die for Sam. How many more times do I have to blow you for some carrots? Why weren't you there today to help me with my garden?" 

"I had a date with Rosie. We got to third base. Isn't that cool?" 

"Why are you telling me this? Of course it's not 'cool' if that's what you youngins are saying these days..." 

"Actually it's not. I'm way ahead of the times" 

"Whatever. I thought you were going to dump that hussy." 

"No way. We're planning on getting hitched when we turn 18, which is conveniently on the same day, April 6." 

"What about me? Didn't I give you the best blowjob of your life?" pleaded Frodo. 

"Yes, of course. You rocked my world. I don't want to end things with you, not ever. But I'm going to keep seeing Rosie, and we're still planning on getting married." 

"Does she know that you're a big fat homo?" 

"Let's not bring my weight into this, Mr. Frodo." 

"Well, does she know that you thing her vagina is disgusting?" 

"I never said that." 

"But you know it's true." 

"Yeah, I know. Vagina, gross."

"Well, Sam, I guess it's time for the part in the story where I use a lot of disgusting planting metaphors to describe our sex," Frodo said sweelty, slipping out of his dungarees. 

"Mr. Frodo, why are you taking off your pants on the front porch?" 

"What? Oh, right." Frodo and Sam went back to Frodo's bedroom. 

"Lovely twin bed you've got here." 

"Shut up, Sam. Now, where were we?" 

"You were taking off your pants." 

"Yes, I sure was." Frodo came over to Sam and undid his overalls. "I think I've got a rough patch of garden around the back that needs some planting," he growled. 

"This is really weird," said Sam. "I'm perfectly happy to have sex with you, but could you cut it out with the metaphors?" 

"What? No. Oh!" Frodo swooned as he pulled his lean little cock out of his tight, white briefs. "Come here and give Frodo some sugar."

"Okay! Okay! Go back to the metaphors." 

"Damn straight. That's like the whole point of this story." 

"Story?" 

"You know, episode. Our little fling. Whatever. Now tend to my back area!" 

Sam was confused. "What is that supposed to mean?" 

"Have you ever heard of analingus? Because I want some, and I want it now." 

"No, I'm afraid I have no idea what you are talking about." 

Frodo sighed. "Okay, let me see if I can think of how to put this into gardening metaphors. You know how if you're not careful, and your garden is overrun by nematodes and you need to find a cure for it fast?" 

"Can you just tell me what it is? I'm not getting any of this." 

"Just lick my butthole, you clod." 

"Umm..." 

"What? You don't want to?" 

"It's not that. I've just never done it before, and I'm nervous." 

"Look, I'm really clean if that's what you're concerned about." 

"It's not that..." 

"I'll do it to you first..." 

"Okay." Sam stuck his butt out and Frodo began to work his magic.

"See," Frodo asked, wiping his mouth. "Mission accomplished." 

"What mission?" Sam sassed. "You weren't on a mission. And I didn't even come. How is that accomplishing anything?" 

"Look, Sam, I don't know and I don't care. Now, you do the same to me." Frodo spread his wonderfully rounded bottom. "Right there, big boy. Give me some of that sweet, sweet tonguin'." 

"See, Mr. Frodo, I'm not very comfortable with this." 

"All right, fine. Just fuck me." At this, Sam perked up. He placed the head of his wee-wee at the entrance to Frodo's La-La Land. "Now, stick it in." 

"Um..." 

"Oh, yeah!" Frodo remembered. "Here." He handed Sam a tube of Astroglide. "Rub some of that in my butt, okay? Then, for the love of god, fuck me!" Sam slid his eager cock into Frodo's waiting anus. "Yay!" he cried, nearly swooning. Sam grunted. 

"Oh, boy," Frodo lolled. "Can we go a little faster?" 

"Um..." 

"Yes, Sam. The only answer is 'yes.' " 

"Um, yes?" 

"That's right. Atta boy." Sam fucked Frodo faster. "Now do it harder," Frodo ordered. 

"You want it harder _and_ faster?" 

"I've got news for you, Sam: That's pretty much how it goes with sex. Now, harder!

Faster!" 

"Yes sir!"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX 

Meanwhile the Widow Rumble and Bilbo were facing a similar predicament, but nobody wants to hear about that... 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The next day Sam showed up right on time to help Frodo with his garden. Frodo was delighted. "Samwise!" he shouted seductively, "Come to the garden shed. I want you to show me which tool to use to plant some bulbs real deep." 

Sam replied huskily, "Oh, I'll show you which tool to use." Sam playfully chased Frodo into the tool shed where Frodo had already laid out a sheet and lit some cinnamon-scented candles. Sam tackled Frodo to the ground where they had a quick fuck before getting to work on the garden. "Getting to work on the garden" of course meant more sex.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX 

"What was that?" Bilbo asked, lifting his head out from between the Widow Rumble's legs. 

"Nothing! Just get back to work." 

"No, I think it was the doorbell." Bilbo put on his robe and slippers and shuffled to the door. He opened it to reveal a middle-aged man wearing a plaid flannel under light-blue corduroy overalls. 

"Hullo," said the man. 

"Hi," said Bilbo. "Can I help you?" 

"You Baggins?" 

"Yes, I'm Bilbo Baggins. Who the hell are you?" 

"I'm Hamfast Gamgee, but everyone calls me 'the gaffer.' " 

"Are you a lighting gaffer?" 

"No, I'm a gardener." 

"Why does everyone call you 'the gaffer?' " 

"Look," said the gaffer, pulling out a knife, "you're not the one who should be asking questions. I have reason to believe my son, Sam, might be lurking around, and I want you to take me to him." 

Bilbo, who knew exactly what Sam and Frodo were doing but had no sense of decency or honor, smiled. "You know what, I think he might be out back helping my nephew, Frodo, with the garden. Should I take you back there?" 

"You'd better." Just then a naked old woman wandered out of the master bedroom. 

"Agnes!" Bilbo squealed. 

"Bilbo, what the hell are you doing? I told you, I'm not interested in a three-way. Leave that French crap to the odd girls downtown." 

"Oh, no, this isn't what it looks like. I just have to take the gaffer here to Frodo. Then I'll be right back. Is that okay, honey?" 

"Sure, whatev. I'll be raiding your fridge."

Bilbo continued to lead the Gaffer out to the garden. At first it seemed like nobody was out there, but even Bilbo's less than keen ears could hear the loud moanings coming from the toolshed. 

"What's that racquet?" the Gaffer asked. 

"Oh, you'll see," Bilbo replied knowingly. 

They walked up to the door of the toolshed, which Bilbo briskly opened, exposing Sam with Frodo ear-deep into his crotch. 

"It's not what you think!" Sam shouted. 

"Mmmrmmhph!" exlaimed Frodo, his vocalizations blocked by Sam's enormous cock. 

"Sweet Jesus!" shouted the Gaffer, immediately suffering a small heart attach unbeknownst to him. 

"Frodo!" shouted Bilbo, half-shocked, half-bored.

"What?" Frodo asked, disloding Sam's penis from his dainty wee throat. 

"What the hell are you doing?" 

"Oh, don't be shocked," Frodo wrote off. "You knew I was gay when you married me." 

"We're not married!" Bilbo sputtered. "But now that you mention it, Agnes said 'yes.' Say goodbye to the Widow Rumble and hello to the Widow Baggins!" 

"Are you going to die?" Frodo asked, one little tear forming at the corner of his eye. 

"No." 

"Oh, thank god," the gaffer sacasted. To Sam, he continued, "Now, what's to be done about this sodomitical little jaunt of yours?" 

"Send me to reform school?" Sam asked. 

"Send him to reform school?" Frodo ventured. 

"I would also like to put in a guess for reform school," Bilbo concluded. 

"Worse," said the gaffer. "I'm sending you to live with your cousin Holman in Columbus, Georgia, where's there's absolutely no gay sex." 

"Are you sure about that?" Frodo asked. 

"_Positive_."


	10. Connecticut

"This is outrageous!" Sam cried as he dropped the pile of mail on the floor. Frodo came running across the foyer of their newly renovated home. 

"What?" he asked, panting. "I hope you didn't make me run in these new khakis for nothing. I just had them altered." 

"They look great," Sam sniffed. 

"I hope you didn't get my L.L. Bean catalogue dirty, then." Frodo stopped to pick up his pile of catalogues. 

"I've just got the shortlist for the Burning Tree golf tournament next month, and I'm up against my mortal enemy." 

Frodo gasped. "Jaques Cousteu? You totally hate him! I'll have to slam my door into his SUV the next time I go grocery shopping." 

"No, not him. I'm talking about Fred Burrows." 

"Oh, I hate him too! Him and his awful wife Trixie." Frodo thought for a moment. "You know, we haven't had them over since the house was redone." 

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Sam asked seductively. 

"Oh my god, yes. Clambake!"

"No, honey-poo, a golf-off. It's what us rich WASP-y Connecticut-type people do when we're highly competitive." 

"Oh, I'm sorry. In Rhode Island, where I was born and lived for three months before my family moved to Connecticut, we do things a bit differently," Frodo said sarcastically. 

"Anyway, this golf-off is going to be tough. I don't know if I can do it." 

"Of course you can, Shnoopy-poo. You're great at golf." 

"You're right, my little Rhode Islander, I can do it. Ashton Sutton George Gamgee III (my ancestor who came to America on the Mayflower) would be ashamed if I didn't!" 

"Must you always bring him up?" 

"Of course."

"So, let me get this straight," Frodo cooed, kicking another raccoon out of his precious petunias before slamming the door shut. "You're going to settle your dispute over a golf tournament with a golf ... off."

"Yes." 

"Oh, that makes sense." 

"I know, I know." Frodo and Sam stared at each other for a few minutes. "So, what's for dinner?" Sam asked sheepishly. 

"Well, Aragornina has the night off, so I guess we're on our own. I could microwave those crab cakes I got at the farmer's market," Frodo offered. 

"Forget it," Sam pooh-poohed. "Let's just go to the club." 

"All right, but you drive," Frodo said, adjusting the cardigan over his shoulders. "I've been drinking gin and tonics since 1:30 in the afternoon." 

"How marvelous," Sam sultrily slurred. 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

At Burning Tree, Frodo and Sam were seated in the main dining room. "I think I'll have the crab cakes," Sam mused, looking over the menu.

"Yes, so will I." 

"Why don't we split an order? I can't eat a whole order," Sam offered. 

"Oh, please. We'll just bring them home and put them in the freezer." The waiter showed up and Frodo ordered another gin and tonic; Sam ordered a glass of white wine and a hot tea. "Tea?" Frodo asked. 

"Oh, my god," Sam drooled, ignoring him. "Do you see who I see?

"Is that?" Frodo asked cut-outedly. 

"I think it is...' Sam continued. 

"Bill Chuthers?" Frodo asked. 

Bill Chuthers approached their table. "Ah, Sam, Frodo." 

"Are you here with Daisy, or are you here by yourself?" Sam asked. 

"Oh, I'm here by myself. Daisy's with the kids. How are you two?" Bill Chuthers replied. 

"Oh, we're fine." Frodo answered. "Why are you here at Burning Tree?" 

"Oh," Bill replied, "I just joined. You must have not read the newsletter yet." 

"Oh, no, we haven't." Sam ululated, "You know how the Greenwich postal service is, terrible at best. You know what my ancestor Ashton Sutton George Gamgee III (who came over on the Mayflower) used to say..." 

"No," Bill Chuthers uttered, "I don't. What did he used to say?" 

"He said, 'Ye Greenwich ol' Postal Service hath not be the best!' " Sam lied. 

"Marvelous!" Bill Chuthers chuckled. 

"I guess I don't get it because I'm from Rhode Island," Frodo muttered to himself. 

"What was that, Frodo?" Sam asked. 

"Um, I said you are so witty, Sam." Frodo answered. "So, Bill," he coddled, poking at a piece of pumpernickel on his plate with his fish fork. "What brings a dyed-in-the-wool Delawarian like yourself all the way here?" 

"Well, with the kids growing up, Daisy and I have been looking for things to waste all of our extra money on," Bill chuthered. "Daisy wanted to hire on a fifth housekeeper but I said, 'Daisy, we can't keep bringing these people up from Meh-hee-ko. Times are bad enough for national security as it is.' And she says to me, 'Bill, if you don't stop talking and finish up I'm not putting out for a month.' So I rolled off of her and the next day we joined." 

"How marvelous!" Sam beamed. 

"Maybe one day you'll come over for brunch and bring the kids," Frodo offered. "I just love making brunch." 

"What would we have?" Bill asked. 

"Crabcakes," Frodo and Sam both answered in unison. 

"Well, gentlemen, that's a mighty nice offer, but I don't know if we should be exposing the kids to your lifestyle right now. Chelsea's therapist says she's at a very impressionable age." 

"I don't molest little girls," Frodo interjected. 

"Well, this has been lovely, but I really must be off. Sam, say hello to your father for us." 

As Bill stumbled away, Frodo shook his fists in rage. "That stupid Republican arsehole!" he mustered. "Why, I sure hope he rips his chinos at his next board meeting." 

"Calm down, honey. Remember: What would Joe Lieberman do?"

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After dinner, and after Frodo had made Aragornina put away the leftover crab cakes, Frodo and Sam lay in their California King bed deciding what to do. 

"So..." Frodo uttered nervously. 

"Yes?" Sam chuthered awkwardly. 

"You wanna have sex?" 

"Didn't we just have sex last week?" 

"What, you don't want to? You don't think I'm sexy anymore?" 

"No, that's not it. It's these new anti-depressants I'm on. I think I may have erectile dysfunction." 

"Sam, I've been switching your Wellbutrin with Viagra for weeks now, that can't be it." 

"Huh, then maybe you're not sexy anymore." 

"WHAT?" Frodo exploded with rage. 

"I'm just kidding, let's have sex." Sam winked. 

"Okay," Frodo yelped.

After waiting patiently for Sam to come and get it, Frodo was happy to have finally gotten with it. He woke up the next morning and came downstairs in his monogrammed robe and matching slippers. Aragornina was busy mopping the floors. "Has Sam gone up to the office yet?" Frodo asked in a yawn. 

"Si." 

Frodo sat down with his coffee and bran muffin and began to read The New York Times. Suddenly, the phone rang. Frodo got up and shuffled over to answer it. "Anoy-hoy?" 

"Frodo!" jingled a stupid little pixie voice. 

"Hi, Trixie." 

"We just heard about the golf tournament! Fred is out getting his clubs polished as we speak!" Frodo snorted. "What was that?" 

"Oh, sorry. My allergies are acting up again." 

"You should have that surgery they're all talking about. I had it two autumns ago and I've been breathing perfectly ever since." 

"Too bad," Frodo bluthered. 

"What was that?" 

"I said, that's great. Anyway," Frodo looked down at his bathrobe. "I'm in the middle of a whole bunch of stuff." 

"Well, I just wanted to invite you and Sam to a pre-golf tournament clambake tomorrow Sunday afternoon. You know, just a friendly little to-do." 

"Will there be crab cakes?" Frodo asked, chewing on his nails like they were crack. 

"Of course!" 

"We'll be there." Frodo hung up the phone. "SAM!" he yelled into the intercom. 

"Yes?" Sam said, standing right next to him. 

"Boy, that was fast. Almost as fast as you were last night." 

"Frodo, the sex was good last night, remember?" 

"I know, I just couldn't _not_ take it there. Anyway, we were just invited to a clambake at the Burrowses. Also, I've organized this whole golf-off thing for you. It's happening at Pirates' Cove tomorrow afternoon." 

"Pirates' Cove?" 

"You did say mini-golf-off, right?" 

"No." Sam was turning red. 

"Well, it's too late now. I've already organized everything." 

"Frodo, this is ridiculous." 

"Shut up. Nothing I ever do is ever good enough for you." 

"Especially your grammar."

"That sounds like grounds for a punishment, Mr. Gamgee." Sam raised an eyebrow. "Don't take that tone with me!" 

"I didn't say anything." 

"You did now. Ha! Take off your clothes and get that cute tush of yours down to my secret S&M dungeon." 

"We have a secret S&M dungeon?" 

"No, Sam. _I_ have a secret S&M dungeon. _You_ have a punishment coming." 

"Yes, sir!" 

"That's 'yes sir, _Mr. Frodo_' to you." 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX 

Sam limped into the driver's seat of the Lexus. "What's wrong, Sam?" Frodo asked. "Something hurting you?" 

"Yes, these God-forsaken paddle marks. What the hell got into you yesterday?" 

"Look, Sam, we agreed that if you took a week off to go on your fancy yoga trip to the Himalayas, I would get to build a secret S&M dungeon and paddle your ass. And torture your nipples." 

"Yeah, see, about that, I don't recall agreeing to anything of the sort. And I don't remember you building a secret S&M dungeon."

"That's because it's a secret."

"Anyway, how am I supposed to win this mini-golf-off when I can't even sit down?" 

"Look, you should of thought of that before you got short with me. Now, we're almost at Pirates' Cove. I imagine the Burrowses are already there, practicing or something. They're so competitive, those Burrowses." 

"I know, I know." 

"Oh, by the way, I've been switching the Viagra I had been switching your Wellbutrin with for steroids for a while now, so I hope you have quite a swing." 

"I don't think that will help when it comes to putt-putt." 

"Look, Samwise Gamgee. You're going to win this thing, or it's the rest of the week in my secret S&M dungeon for you." 

"Yes, sir, Mr. Frodo." 

As they arrived at Pirates' Cove there was quite a commontion. It seemed some prostitute had been arrested in the parking lot. 

"Ooh, let's get a closer look," pleaded Frodo. 

"Yeah, I love seeing the expressions on their faces as they get arrested. It's priceless," Sam agreed. 

"Oh my god, is that who I think it is?" 

"Yes, that prostitute is..."

"Well, it's not important," Frodo followed up. Sam gave him a dirty look. "Oh, Sam, don't be such a beyotch. Do you want to kick Fred Burrows's ass in this mini-putt-putt-athon, or do you want to stand here gawking at some hooker?" 

"I guess I want to kick Fred's ass," Sam moaned. "But gossip can be so much more interesting." 

"Well, in Rhode Island, where I come from, we look down on gossip. One might even say we _shun_ gossip. Now, to the golf-off!" 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX 

"Frodo! Sam!" Trixie Malloy squealed, hopping over a child who was having a seizure on the eighth hole. "Oh, it's so good to see you! Did you bring the screwdrivers like I told you?" 

"Sure did," Frodo sassooned, hoisting over a thermos full of frosty, delicious screwdrivers. 

"Perfect!" Trixie malloyed. "Fred's over on the first hole practicing his swing." 

Frodo, Sam, and Trixie trudged over to the first hole, which was, in typical mini-golf fashion, just a simple stretch of astroturf with a hole at the end, but it was proving to be deceptively difficult for poor Fred. "Gosh dernit!" he bellowed, chucking the "club" (or putter) across the course. "Hole in two! Hole in two! All I ever get on this ridiculous course is a dang hole in two!" 

"Calm down, dear," Trixie shushed. "Our neighbors the Brandybucks are here today, and that Estella is an awful gossip. Do you really want her blabbing to the whole neighborhood about your hole in two?" 

"See?" Frodo whispered to Sam. "All it takes to get Trixie totally shnonkered is two peppermint Schnapps, and she's got looser lips than me. And guess what she told me?" 

"What?" Sam hardly cared. 

"Fred can't play putt-putt. You're a shoe-in!"

"Frodo, this is great news. Thank God you get drunk so often." 

"Thanks, Sam. It really means a lot to me hearing that from you." 

"You're welcome. Fred!" Sam called to Fred, who turned around quickly almost knocking over Trixie with his putter. 

"Ah! Sam, Frodo, you're here. Shall we begin?" Fred asked. 

"Yes. I guess you're already in position on hole number one, so you go first," Sam penetrated. 

"Right," said Fred. 

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Thirty minutes later the pair had reached the 18th hole. It was a windmill, but unlike a normal windmill hole, this windmill had six blades. It was known far and wide as one of the hardest putt-putt holes in existence, or at least as far as New London, CT was concerned. 

The score was tied. Even though Fred Burrows was terrible at putt-putt, it turned out Sam was as well. Fred turned behind him to see what he assumed was a small group of people watching. 'Who wouldn't want to watch a golf-off as thrilling as this one?' he thought to himself. In actuality, there was a back-up of putt-putters because Sam and Fred took such a long time at each hole. An angry group of Japanese tourists was shaking their putters menacingly at the group. 

"Oh, stop," Frodo pish-poshed at them. The group said something back to him in Japanese that sounded something like "baka gaiijin" and was definitely derogatory. 

Fred breathed deeply and putted the all with one graceful stroke. [Bollinger's note: WTF? Radaker, this isn't even English. It slowly meandered its way around the obstacles and toward the hole in the middle of the windmill. 

"Oh my god!" Frodo whispered loudly, feigning a swoon. 

Predictably, the ball hit one of the blades of the windmill, which sent it rolling backwards approximately 10 inches. 

"Phew!" said Frodo loudly, dramatically wiping his brow of imaginary sweat. 

Fred stepped up to the ball, cursing under his breath, and tapped it slightly with his putter. Everyone, including the group of Japanese tourists held their breath. The ball rolled into the hole and out the other end of the windmill and into the hole. 

"Hole in two!" shouted Fred. "Beat that, Sam!" 

Sam stepped up to his neon pink golf ball. "Well, here goes nothing," he said as he swung gallantly with his putter.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"I can't believe you won the tournament!" Frodo crowed, giving Sam an encouraging pat on the tush. "Oh my god! We'll put your new trophy in our trophy room! Oh, this is so exciting! Move over, 'Seventh Annual Camp Punxatawny Fourth of July BBQ Relay Race, Eighth Place!' There's a new award in town!" 

"I don't think they give awards for putt-putt tourneys," Fred Burrows said snidely, swishing his glass of rye, straight on the rocks. "Besides, it was merely a technicality." 

"How was that a technicality?" Sam asked. "I won, fair and square." 

"Oh, please," Trixie sighed, taking an annoying little sip on her awful cosmo. 

"Yeah," Fred agreed. "Ricocheting off of a gawking bystander is hardly what I would call golf." 

"That gawking bystander was a Japanese tourist!" Sam cried. 

"Oh, please. I call that bullshit," Fred offered. 

"I call it luck," Trixie powdered. 

"I call it skill," Frodo cooed. "I'm so proud of you, baby!" Frodo gave Sam a sloppy buss on the cheek. 

"Frodo, please," Sam said, all embarrassed. "Emotion in public." 

"But, Sam!" Frodo protested. "You won! You beat your rival!" 

"No, Fro, it's like my ancestor, Ashton Sutton George Gamgee III always said, 'Thou shalt not show thy gay emotions at ye olde putt-putt course wet bar.' When he came over on the Mayflower, people knew how to behave in public."

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Later that night, in bed, Frodo and Sam continued their little discussion. 

"Oh, Sam, I've always wanted to be fucked by a champion!" Frodo slurred. 

"And I've always wanted to be one!" Sam concluded. 

"Oh, fuck me!" Frodo ripped off his 2(x)ist briefs and spread his legs invitingly. 

Sam followed suit by sliding off his chinos. He wasn't wearing any underwear, so that was no obstacle. He grabbed a condom from the orange Red Wing pottery gravy boat on Frodo's bedside table. 

"Unlubricated?" Sam exclaimed, glancing at the red package. 

"I bought them by mistake. The KY's in the drawer."

Sam reached over and slobbered lube on his unlubricated penis covered in an unlubricated condom.

"Stick it in!" Frodo squealed. 

"Sure thing," Sam exclaimed whilst sticking his raging hard-on into Frodo's puckered love hole. 

"Ohhh!" moaned Frodo, sick with desire.

"Yeah, baby," Sam moaned. "How do you like it?" 

"I love it," Frodo sighed. "Work that cock, baby. I need your loving." 

"Yes, you do." 

"Oh, do I ever." There was a moment of awkward silence. "Did we used to have this much awkward silence in the bedroom?" Frodo wanted to know. 

"I don't think so. I think we used to be, like, pretty decent at dirty talk." Frodo clenched his ass muscles around Sam's penis for a minute. "Ooh, that was kind of hot," Sam remarked. 

"Really?" 

"Yeah, really." 

"But just kind of." 

"What, you want me to lie?" 

"I don't know. If I told you you weren't satisfying me, how would you feel? I mean, what would you want?" 

"I think I would want you to say something so that I could improve my performance," Sam said. "When my ancestor, Ashton Sutton George Gamgee III, came over on the Mayflower, he did it because he was committed to striving for greatness. When I pound you with my rock-hard cock, I want it to be the best it can be. For both of us. Got me?" 

"Ew," Frodo groaned. "I cannot believe you dragged that Ashton man into our lovemaking. Not cool, Sam. Not cool."

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The next week was a busy one for Frodo. He had committed himself to organizing a charity picnic to help victims of Muscular Dystrophy. He had been busying himself with the task of finding the perfect gourmet cole slaw. Actually, this was the only thing that the other ladies organizing the picnic would let him do, but he took the job very seriously. 

Every morning he would wake up at 10 a.m. (one hour earlier than his usual waking time) to scour all of the gourmet groceries in a 40-mile radius. This, of course, included several trips into Manhattan upon which he would return with countless bags from different downtown boutiques. 

"Did you find the right cole slaw yet?" Sam asked as Frodo slammed at least 16 shopping bags onto the round table in their foyer. He had just returned from one of these cole-slaw hunting excursions. 

"Cole-slaw? What are you talking about?" 

"For the charity picnic!" 

"Oh, no. None of them had the right consistency, or something. But I got some great new cardigans!" 

"That's great. You know, this picnic is only a week away." 

"Sam, nothing is more important to me right now than this picnic." 

"Really?" 

"Look, these victims of Hurricane Katrina aren't going to get the things that they need without this picnic being a smashing success. And it won't be without the perfect cole slaw." 

"Frodo, it's for Muscular Dystrophy patients." 

"That's what I said."

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Frodo was a little late to the picnic coordinators' meeting. "I'm so, so sorry," he sniffed, folding up his sunglasses and putting them away in his purse. "There was a horrible accident on Old Ashton Gamgee Road." 

"Whatever was the matter?" Mrs. Snootington asked. 

"A 2001 Lincoln Towncar plowed into a sundial," Frodo moaned. "It was just awful." All of the matronly old women stared at Frodo. "So, I was thinking, maybe we should form a committee to evaluate the need for a stop sign at that intersection. So many Towncars might be spared! I think the benefits would outweigh the costs." 

"My husband owns the local scrap yard," coughed Mrs. Tustlebustle. 

"And _my_ husband is head of the Committee to Save Time and Money by Not Deliberating on Traffic Claims," Mrs. Snootington weighed in. 

"All in favor of expelling Frodo Baggins from the Charitable Matrons' Guild?" 

"Aye!" 

"The ayes have it. Mr. Baggins, we ask that you turn in your gold-pleated pin, and see yourself out." 

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" 

THE END


	11. Georgia

Bilbo sat silently smoking on his pipe, his red smoking jacket tied firmly. He enjoyed these times in the afternoons, when Frodo was away at the soda fountain. It was the only time he could get any peace and quiet.

"Meow," said the Persian cat that Frodo had named Elsie. 

"Shhh!" Bilbo shushed. 

Just then Frodo burst in through the walnut double doors of the study. "Bilby! Bilby! You'll never guess who I saw at the soda fountain!" Frodo shouted, disturbing the solitude that Bilbo was so enjoying. 

"I told you not to call me that. It's Bilb-_o_. Bilb-_o_." 

"Don't have a cow, big daddy," Frodo snipped back. "It was only the hippest cat around, Saruman. Oh, he's so dreamy. He's got such a classy chassis." 

"I don't even know what you just said. You saw a hot girl at the soda fountain? Sarumina?" Bilbo offered, generally confused. Frodo tended to talk very quickly, trying to cram as much of the current slang into each sentence as possible. 

"Yes, that's exactly what I said," Frodo sarcastimated. "Ugh, you're such a wet rag. I'm leaving. Where's that gardener? He'll swoon with me. He's always desperate to spend as much time with me as possible. What a kook!" Frodo skipped gaily out of the room, slamming the doors behind him. 

Bilbo let out a large sigh. Why did he adopt Frodo? It was the biggest mistake of his overly long life.

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That night, Frodo had a very odd dream. It was very hot in Atlanta in the summers, what with the boiling heat of racial oppression, and the fact that air conditioning was only in movie theaters, grocery stores, and Bilbo's bedroom. Frodo had asked for some in his room, but Bilbo had taken him to task. 

"Gosh darnit, boy!" he crowed. "Do you know how much it would cost to air condition any more of this crumbling old plantation house?" It wasn't true. Bag End was in such good condition that Bilbo charged tour groups $1.50 a person to tour the staterooms and grounds, which included the world-renowned stables. 

"Will you at least buy me a pony?" Frodo asked. 

"Oh yes," Bilbo agreed. "You just join the football team and play your old uncle's number, 111, and I'll buy you the most beautiful pony this podunk backwater town had ever seen." 

"In what way is Atlanta podunk _or_ backwater?" 

"Just do it or I'll send you to live with your Uncle Saradoc and his wife Esmeralda in Columbus." 

"Why isn't her name Esmerelda? Why Esmeralda, with an A?" 

"Just do it!" 

Not shockingly, Frodo didn't make it onto the football team. Still, Bilbo bought him a Palomino, the grandness of which had never been seen from the Highlands to Buckhead. "But I don't like Palominos!" Frodo cried, and Bilbo shot the Palomino — whose name was "Gollum" — and sold its corpse to the local glue factor, Gluerific Gluemakers, for a tidy sum. 

Meanwhile, in Frodo's dream...

A large wave had just crashed upon the deck of the ship Frodo was on. The winds were howling and rain was pouring like cats and dogs. Frodo ran from end to end of the expansive deck as the sound of metal creaking surrounded him. "What is the name of this ship?" he asked frantically, the wind almost drowning out his voice. Just then he noticed the name printed on one of the smokestacks. "The Titanic!" Frodo exasperated. "How did I get on here?" 

Just then a wave crashed on top of him, sending him over the side of the ship and into the roaring ocean beneath. Instead of getting all wet and salty Frodo found himself in an incredibly plush bed. This bed was even plusher than his bed in the conscious world, which was incredibly plush. This bed was immense and fluffy and dressed in pink silk. Also on the bed with him was Saruman, his crush. "Saruman! Oh, this is much better," Frodo uttered seductively. 

"Better than what?" Saruman asked, tossing his long blonde locks behind his ear. 

"Oh, nothing. You wouldn't understand." 

"No, probably not. Now let's get with it," Saruman encouraged, removing his white cloak. 

"Why are you wearing a cloak? This is the 1950s, not the Middle Ages, silly." 

"Don't ask me, it's your dream." Saruman answered. "What am I supposed to do with this staff?" he asked, pulling a long white walking stick out from some folds of pink satin

sheets. 

"Um, I have a few ideas..." Frodo giggled.

Frodo awoke in a cold sweat. "Ahhhhhhhh!" he screeched. "Oh my, that was terrifying." 

"What is it?" cried Bilbo, as he ran in to Frodo's bedchamber. "Has the help broken another of my priceless Faberge eggs, which cost exactly $4,500 a piece?" 

"No, worse," Frodo moaned. 

"The Baccarat?" 

"No." 

"The antique candlesticks that my ancestor, Bullroarer Took, brought over from Iron Gorge?" 

"No, no," Frodo dismissed. "I just had a dream where I lost my maidenhood to Saruman. Do you think perhaps he likes me?" 

Bilbo sighed and, removing his nightcap, sat in the old armchair by the fireplace. "Frodo, here's what I think: If you're one of those blasted fairies, I will spank you so hard you'll wish you had a horse carcass to cry into, which is a shame because I already sold that damn Palomino to those nice glue people." 

"I'm not a fairy," Frodo scoffed. "Do you think I should wear a bonnet to market tomorrow?" 

"Market? What century are you living in? Just go to the soda fountain like a normal kid." 

"But I don't want to go to the soda fountain! Ice cream makes me fat, and that waitress is such a beyotch!" 

"I think Sam is going," Bilbo said, ignoring everything Frodo said. "Why don't you go with him? 

"Sam is going?" Frodo asked, his interest piqued. "Well, okay. But you have to give me some money. I don't want to spend all of the $6 I made grading papers for teacher." 

"All right."

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Later that day Sam and Frodo made their way down to the soda fountain on their bikes. Sam's was practically an antique and it was a wonder it made it to the soda fountain in one piece. Frodo had a light yellow Schwinn with a white wicker basket on the front handles. He liked to put fresh-cut wildflowers in it sometimes. This was not one of those times, which greatly relieved Sam. 

"I'll have a chocolate malt," Sam said to Eowyn, a girl both Sam and Frodo knew from high school. She worked at the soda fountain because her family was poor. Her father was dead and she lived with her uncle, Theoden King, who was known around town as the local drunk. Theoden was often seen in the company of Grima Wormtongue, who ran a chain of successful fast food establishments in the area. Grima was known to be less than scrupulous and Frodo was pretty sure that because of this Eowyn was not one to be associated with. Also, she smelled funny and instead of poodle skirts she wore ferret skirts which weren't nearly as cool. 

"And I'll have a strawberry shake!" Frodo piped in, glaring awkwardly past Sam's bulbous head at a greasy spot on Eowyn's apron. "You've got a little schmutz," Frodo said. 

"What's schmutz?" Eowyn asked, twirling limp and greasy hair around her gnarly finger. 

"Oh, you are so unsophisticated, Eowyn. They shouldn't even let you work at a place like this," Frodo shot back. She teared up. 

"Um, I don't know what schmutz is either," Sam said, trying to make the situation less awful. 

"Yeah, well, it doesn't matter," Frodo said, getting frustrated, "because I like you and I don't like her." 

"You like me?" Sam asked, getting his hopes up. Eowyn ran into the back to cry and make their shakes.

"Yeah, I like you," Frodo confessed. "Do you like me?" 

"No," Sam said. "That's what makes this so awkward." 

"Not even a little tiny bit?" 

"How shall I put this in a way you would understand?" 

"I'm not stupid," Frodo protested, digging some gunk from his nail with a toothpick. "Let's listen to some Patsy Cline on the jukebox. Do you have a nickel?" 

"I don't have anything. I can barely afford this milkshake. I'm poor. That's why I'm your gardener." 

"We should also be lab partners." 

"Yeah, okay, I'll get on that. Listen, it's not going to work out between us." 

Frodo's happy face fell. "Why not?" he moaned. Eowyn sauntered up. 

"Here are your shakes," she said. 

"His was a malt, you ugly freak." 

"I'm sorry." 

"I'm repulsed by girls as it is, and you're possibly the most repulsive. Get out of my sight!" Frodo commanded. 

"I hope you're going to tip her well enough," Sam mumbled, utterly embarrassed. 

"What?" 

"See, this is sort of why we can't be friends." 

"Should I have been meaner to her?" Sam groaned. 

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Bilbo was sitting in his study in his smoking jacket, reading the Saturday Evening Post. "How'd it go?" he asked. "Are you normal yet?" 

"He hates me!" Frodo pouted. "Hey, you know that magazine is on the decline, right?" 

"What happened?" 

"He seems to think I'm cruel and demanding. What is wrong with that noodle-brained lackey! I mean, all I want him for is a quick tumble." 

"You're looking for a wrestling buddy?" Bilbo asked. "You know, I was quite the tussler in my day."

"Yeah, I'm sure you were. God, you are so oblivious." 

"Oblivious to what?" 

"Oh, nothing. Anyway, I'm going to go to bed and fantasize about boys. I'll see you later." 

"Yes, you do that. Goodnight, Frodo." 

"Nighty-night, Daddy-o." 

That night Frodo had another strange dream. This time he was in a meadow full of wildflowers, running naked in between Sam and Saruman. Saruman had his stupid white staff that he often had in Frodo's dreams with him. Sam was wearing a straw hat and nothing else. He was huffing and puffing, trying to keep up with Saruman's long strides. Frodo was having an easier time of it, because he wasn't nearly as fat as Sam. 

"Frodo," Saruman cooed, "I want to take you away with me and love you forever and ever." 

"Sarumun," Frodo responded, "I want you to take me. Ravish me, Saruman, you big sexy stud." 

"I would, but Sam's here." 

"Just let him watch or something. I don't know." 

"No, he's a huge turnoff. You have to get rid of him." 

Frodo looked over at Sam who just gave him huge puppy eyes. 

"I can't do that!" Frodo exclaimed. 

"It's either him or me," Saruman commanded. 

"Well, I choose... I choose..."

"FRODO," a voice boomed. Frodo was awakened from his blissful and erotic slumber to find Bilbo standing over his bed. "Good gracious, boy!" he tut-tutted. "It's 8:15 a.m. hundred hours on the dot! It's time to go to church!" 

"Do we have to?" Frodo groaned sleepily. "I was having the greatest dream." 

"Oh, yes we do," Bilbo sassed. "You've got to pray to God that he'll take care of your little eccentricity." Frodo and Bilbo looked at each other for a moment. 

"What eccentricity?" Frodo asked. 

"Oh, you know how you're constantly indoors reading books and wistfully daydreaming instead of out there at the soda fountain making strong male bonds and romancing a cute little co-ed." 

"I'll tell you something about strong male bonds," Frodo muttered under his breath. Then, louder, he said, "Why are _you_ so happy to go to church all of a sudden?" 

"I'm courting the minister's wife," Bilbo said shockingly. 

"But she's married to the minister!" Frodo said, shocked. 

"Yeah, well, what are you going to say about that, huh, mister?" 

Frodo thought about this. He wasn't sure what he was going to say about it. Should he sell this information to the local paper's gossip column for a nice fee, or just let it slip out at one of those boring school socials Bilbo always made him go to? And even better, would Sam be at church? Frodo figured Sam was probably religious. He would have to act very pious if he wanted to get into Sam's pants.

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Sure enough, Sam was at church, but he was with his awful father, the Gaffer, who always gave Frodo the dirtiest looks. Frodo kept winking at Sam throughout the service, but Sam, oblivious as always, failed to notice. The sermon that day just happened to be on the sin of sodomy, and all that talk of man laying with man really got Frodo hot and horny. When he saw Sam get up to go to the bathroom he decided to follow him out. 

"Sam!" Frodo whispered loudly once they were in the hallway. 

"Hi, Frodo. I didn't know you went to church," Sam replied. 

"Oh, yeah, all the time. I love Jesus and all his little friends." 

"Um, ok. Look, I've really gotta pee. I'll see you later," Sam said, walking toward the bathroom. 

"Wait!" Frodo addled, "There's a much less crowded bathroom in the basement. It's only a little bit farther. I'll show you if you want." 

"Okay," Sam said, making a huge mistake. 

"Great, come this way." Frodo gave Sam come-hither eyes, which Sam purposely ignored.

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Down in the basement, Frodo led Sam into temptation, which was conveniently located in the first broom closet he found. "In here!" Frodo yelled, yanking Sam into the little tiny space by the sleeve of Sam's Sunday best (which was totally ugly and Frodo thought it should be called Sam's Sunday mediocrest). 

"I don't think this is a bathroom," Sam mumbled as Frodo shoved a bunch of crap in front of the door so Sam couldn't escape, a word which he pronounced "excape" on purpose because he thought it was real cute to do so. 

"Oh, maybe it's not." Frodo shrugged. 

"Look, Frodo, I really have to urinate," Sam said sadly. 

"Urinate in this great ... bucket," Frodo said saucily as he found and hoisted up a bucket. 

"But there's a mop in it," Sam rationalized. 

"You can urinate on me," Frodo logicatilistitiated. 

"Uh..." 

"Look, you know we're both down here to get some play. Could I have made it any more obvious?" Sam shook his head. "Now open up that stupid mouth of yours and give me what I need." Frodo stepped out of his pants to reveal a pair of leopard-print silk boxers. 

"I'm not..." Sam began, but Frodo cut him off. 

"You're not what, not gay? I hear that one all the time. Don't pretend like you're not interested in me." 

"I never said I wasn't gay," Sam responded. "I don't know what or who I am. My sexuality is still being shaped. I jut don't like you." 

"Bullcock, everyone likes Frodo," said Frodo, bending over to wiggle his bottom in Sam's face. 

"Please stop," said Sam. "You're not a nice boy." 

"I'll be as nice as you want," Frodo offered. 

"All right," Sam sighed, defeated. "I'll let you go down on me. Is that what you want?" 

"I want something in return," Frodo bargained. 

"I'll let you do it again?" Sam asked. 

Frodo thought for a moment. "Deal!" he finally accepted.

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After their little rendezvous in the church basement things between Frodo and Sam became very awkward. To Frodo it seemed like Sam was avoiding him. To Sam it seemed like Frodo was a creepy stalker. The truth was Frodo had begun some creepy stalker-like habits. One time Frodo had entered Sam's bedroom on the false pretense that he had left some homework there. The Gaffer had let him in, telling him Sam wasn't home right now and to make it quick. Frodo already knew that Sam wasn't home because Sam had choir practice every Thursday at four. 

Frodo entered Sam's room where he looked for little things he could steal and no one would notice: a paperclip, a dirty sock, that sort of thing. Once he got home, Frodo unloaded his bounty into his closet, where he started to build a sort of shrine to Sam around a photograph from the local paper that Frodo found from the time Sam had rescued a cat from a tree. 

When Elronda, the maid, stumbled upon the shrine during her regular cleaning duties she approached Frodo. "Frodo, baby? What'chu been doin' here? This just ain't right, sunshine. I'm gonna throw this away." 

"No! I love him!" Frodo protested. 

"Look, sugar, it's just not healthy to be buildin' no shrines, honey. Why don't 'cha go talk to him and explain how you feel?" 

"I can't! I don't think he feels the same way about me." 

"Oh, sugar, of course he does. You're a beautiful young woman." 

"Um..." 

"I gotta go, honey. The cellar won't scrub itself." 

"Oh, Elronda, you're the best!"

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"Sam?" Frodo asked, entering the study room in the library where Sam always studied his maths. 

"Ah!" Sam cried. "Holy Father, you have to stoop doing that!" 

"Doing what?" Frodo asked creepily, as he twisted a napkin so tightly his fingers were beginning to bleed. 

"That!" Sam yelled again, pointing out the bloody fingers. 

"Oh, that's nothing," Frodo pooh-poohed, waving away his troubles like so many insignificant ants at one of his long-lost mother's Sisterhood Society picnics. "You see, I have a bigger problem." 

"Yeah, tell me about it," Sam sighed. "I want my stuff back. That rubber band ball was finally getting big enough to enter into the rubber band ball competition at the State Fair next month." 

"No, I don't mean that." 

"So, I can have my things back?" 

Frodo thought for a minute. "No. I'm going to enter that rubber band ball in the state fair myself. I've been adding to it, you know, ever-so-slowly but surely. I mean, there's an honest-to-goodness $12 prize in that contest. And anyway, my problem is this." Frodo cleared his throat and got on his knees. 

"Frodo, not here!" Sam said, shocked. 

"No, silly. You see, I'm in love with you." 

"You are?" Sam asked. "Oh, Frodo, that's so sweet. This is a side of you I've never seen. I mean, I've seen the backside a lot, mostly while my throbbing member is in your soft little bow of a mouth." 

"So, can we go out on a real date?" 

Sam didn't know. Frodo kind of disgusted him. But Sam was a decent guy, and he felt like if he Frodo and were hooking up on a regular basis, he owed it to Frodo to give it a go. "Okay. Let's meet at the soda fountain. Wear something purty." 

"You mean pretty?" 

"Yeah." 

"Oh boy! I'll be there at 8 p.m. tonight!" Frodo was very excited. He finally had Sam in his clutches, and now the other boy would never excape!

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That night Frodo worked very hard to look his purty-est. He went up into the attic where he found an old makeup box. Most of the antebellum makeup he found was all dried out, but the eyeliner and blush were still usable. He tried to apply it lightly and subtly so that it wouldn't be obvious that he was wearing makeup. His attempts, however, were a failure, and unbeknownst to him he looked like a total harlot. 

He jumped on his bike, putting his hair back in a scarf so that the wind would not disturb its Aqua Net-ed perfection. Down the hill he went until he was at the soda fountain a few minutes later. He had pedaled very slowly, petrified to break a sweat. He was really trying to look his best. 

Frodo walked inside. Sam wasn't there yet. 'That's okay,' Frodo thought to himself. 'I'll just get a chocolate malt and wait for him.' 

Eowyn glared at him, ready to throw a temper tantrum at the slightest encouragement. "What do you want, Frodo?" 

"I'll have a chocolate malt, you." Frodo thromustigated pompously. 

"Okay, that will 35 cents, you big jerk." 

"Hey, don't call me that, you horrible bitch," Frodo said, throwing 35 cents at her face. 

"Ow!" Eowyn yelped, gathering the money from the floor. 

"Just give me the damn malt," Frodo demanded. She turned around and prepared his malt. "Mmm. " Frodo thrummed as he sipped on his deliciously thick malt. He sat down at a booth for two near the corner. 'Where's Sam?' he thought to himself, all the while sipping intently. 

Half an hour later Sam still hadn't arrived. Frodo's malt was long gone and his century-old makeup was starting to run. 'Hmmmph!' He thought, 'Nobody stands up Frodo Baggins and gets away with it!' He picked himself up and stomped daintily outside where he mounted his bike and started riding it straight to Sam's humble abode.

Frodo banged on the door of the peach-colored house. It was on a hilly street in a quiet neighborhood. The door swung open to reveal a pretty girl of about 20. "Hi," she said. "I like your rouge." 

"I'm not wearing rouge," Frodo corrected. "I'm a boy. My cheeks are just rosy on their own merits." 

"Uh huh." The girl gave Frodo a weird look. "You here to see my pa?" 

"Um, no. I'm here to see Sam." 

"Oh! You must be his little friend. I'm Sam's sister Daisy." 

"Hi, Daisy," said Frodo. "That's a stupid name." 

"Okay. Well, you can't see Sam. He's got a bad case of the dropsy." 

"The dropsy!" Frodo cried, not knowing what in the heck dropsy was. "How atrocious!" 

"I know. He'll call you when he's all better. Thanks for stopping by." Frodo slunk away as Daisy shut the door behind him.

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Sam didn't call the next day. He didn't call the day after that. At dinner, Frodo was miserable. Bilbo noticed that he was pushing his hushpuppies around his place and hadn't even touched his chitlins. "Is something the matter with you, boy?" 

"I think Sam hates me," Frodo moaned. 

"Maybe it's because you've been wearing that fruity makeup lately." 

"I'm not wearing makeup!" Frodo protested. "I'm just naturally rosy." 

"Frodo, I've known you since you were orphaned. Well, since you came to live here because no one else wanted you, anyway. I think I can tell when you're wearing makeup." 

"Okay, maybe I am wearing makeup!" Frodo moaned sobbily. "But it's only because ... because..." He sniffed. "It's just because I want to be pretty!" Frodo threw his plate at Bilbo's face and ran out of the outsize dining room sobbing.

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The next day a telegram arrived for Frodo. It was from Daisy describing in detail the state of Sam's dropsy. "Ew!" said Frodo after reading the telegram out loud to a disinterested Bilbo, emphasizing every "stop" as if it were the end of the world. 

"And why did you read that to me?" Bilbo mumbled, puffing at his pipe. 

"Look, I think that that bitch Daisy is lying to me. I think that she found out about Sam and I's relationship and now she's trying to split us up." 

"Wow." Bilbo said, raising his copy of the Atlanta Sentinel in order to block his face from view. 

"I'm going to bike down there and give her a piece of my mind. That's what I'll do." 

"Great," Bilbo barely intoned. 

Frodo marched off to his Schwinn and biked down the hill. He didn't even put on any eyeliner, he was in that much of a rush. He knocked on the pine door to Sam's father's house. It was sort of a shack, but a little nicer. 

Daisy answered the door, wearing a dress that cut off just above the knee. It had a pattern that consisted of brown and azure daisies overlapping. Frodo kind of liked it, but his unsubstantiated hatred for Daisy clouded his normally impeccable fashion sense, causing him to dislike it immediately only because it was draped on _her_ repulsive frame. "Oh, hello, Frodo," Daisy said perkily. 

"Hello, Daisy," Frodo down tempo-ed. 

"Are you here to see Sam?" she asked, even though it was a stupid question. 

"Of course I am, you dolt! I don't care what you say, I want to see him now, dropsy or no dropsy." 

"Actually, he's made a miracle recovery. A preacher from New Macon cured him, good as new. You can go see him right now, he's resting in his room." 

"Oh," said Frodo, pushing past her.

"Sam!" Frodo squealed, slamming into the cramped bedroom that was actually a closet under the stairs with a bed with plaid flannel sheets and in the bed was a sleeping lump of a high schooler. 

"Huhzuh?" asked the now-awakened lump. 

"It's me, Sam," Frodo cooed, plopping himself down on the bed and stroking Sam's feet. "Oh, you poor darling. I'm going to make you all better. I think I have some special medicine here for you." Frodo kind of awkwardly lifted his groin up off of the bed and indicated his penile area. 

"I don't want to fellate you," Sam said. "I told you, you do me, I think about Marilyn Monroe." 

"Ew!" Frodo cried. "She has a bosom!" 

"I know," Sam sighed. "And what a bosom!" 

"Listen, I hope you're okay. I've missed you while you've been ill." 

Sam groaned. "Frodo, I haven't been ill." 

"Then why didn't you come to our date?" 

"Well ... oh, this is so difficult to say." 

"Will closing your eyes help you say it?" Frodo asked, clearly not fearing anything close to the worst. 

"Oh, that sounds like a good idea." He squeezed his eyes shut. "It's like you're not even here! This was a great idea. Listen, I'm sorry, but I have to say it: I totally hate you." Sam opened his eyes. "Are we okay now?"

"I know, but I don't care, I just want your sex." Frodo admitted while not really admitting anything because it was blatantly obvious to both him and Sam. 

"Yeah, but I even hate you sexually." 

"Are you sure it isn't because you actually love me?" 

"Positive." 

"Well, I'm going to be totally mature about this and leave without throwing a temper tantrum." 

"Really?" 

"Yes, you will never hear from me again, Sam Gamgee. I've been humiliated enough. But just you remember that I'm the one in charge of the most likelies for our yearbook, and don't be surprised when you don't like what you read." 

"Fine, just get out before I vomit." 

"Goodbye, Sam." Frodo picked himself up and with his head held ridiculously high exited the bedroom, only tripping over a rollerskate once on his way out. As soon as he exited Casa de Gamgee he began sobbing hysterically. He continued to sob all the way back to Bag End where he burst through the burled walnut doors of Bilbo's study with such force that the draft from opening the doors blew the top three pages off of the stack of papers that Bilbo called his memoirs. "Oh, Bilbo. Sam dumped me." 

"Frodo, the end of a friendship isn't a dumping," Bilbo chided, restacking his memoirs with care and placing a large shoe on top of them. 

"We weren't friends, we were lovers!" 

"Frodo, you aren't making any sense. Here take these valium." 

"Okay," Frodo said, accepting the offered little yellow pills and downing them without any water. "I'm going to cry myself to sleep. Goodnight." 

"Goodnight," Bilbo said, only afterwards noticing that the clock said that it was only 2:30 p.m.

When Frodo awoke 12 hours later, he noticed that it was dark out. "Darn it all to hell," he slurred. "I have the strangest taste in my mouth. Well, not so much a taste, really. It's more like my mouth has just entirely lost all of its own saliva. God, my mouth is dry." Frodo realized then that there was no one in the room with him, and he had been entirely alone just like he would always be alone because he was an utterly worthless wretch. 

Suddenly, out of the corner or his eye, he noticed a white note taped to the window. "How very odd," Frodo said. "Oh, right. No one's here. Well, I'm just going crazy." 

"Yes, you sure are," agreed Frodo's alarm clock. 

Frodo stepped over the pile of Lincoln Logs on his bedroom floor, which were scattered around his polar bear-skin rug and stumbled toward the window. He'd really been working hard to construct that 1/12th model of the Log Cabin Lincoln was Born In but Elsie the cat had knocked it over that morning when Frodo was yelling at her for shedding on his caftan. 

"Dear me!" Frodo exclaimed when he had secured the note. All it said was, "I'm sorry." But it was still the greatest thing that ever happened to Frodo, and he died of AIDS in 1986 after moving to San Francisco and becoming a glass blower. 

THE END


	12. Colorado

Sam Gamgee looked out the window of his fabulous Boulder one-bedroom, which he shared with his boyfriend Frodo. Frodo had a penchant for doing stupid things, and each time he did one he was required to put one dollar in the "Stupid Jar," which was an empty Clausen dill spears jar on which Sam had scrawled "Stupid Jar" with a black Sharpie. (Frodo had drawn little hearts and butterflies on the jar with his magenta Sharpie. Frodo owned the whole rainbow set of Sharpies.) 

To Sam's relief, Frodo hadn't done anything even remotely stupid for a few weeks now. Sure, there was the garbage disposal/fingers incident of before Christmas, but now it was early May and just like the doctor had promised, Sam's fingers were starting to grow back. In a few months, Sam would be able to get off of disability and go back to his mediocre-paying job as a gardener. In the meantime, Frodo had gone out grocery shopping while Sam stayed at home to do his physical therapy. Sam was really hoping Frodo would bring back some delicious plain yogurt and sweet, sweet granola. 

Sam heard the key turn in the lock. "Sam!" called a sugary-sweet voice. "Guess what happened while I was out!" The door slammed. 

"You went grocery shopping like you were supposed to?" Sam ventured. 

"No," said Frodo, slipping into the living room and stooping over to pet his kitten, Mister Puss. "Is Mister Puss being a good boy today?" 

"Meow," Mister Puss confirmed. 

"Good, good," Frodo agreed. "Everything's just going splendidly. I mean, you'll never guess what happened while I was out!"" 

"Yeah," Sam chimed in. "What happened while you were out already?" 

"Well, I wanted it to be a surprise..." Frodo hemmed. 

"Frodo, your surprises are always terrible," Sam reminded. "Remember that time you got a sex change?" Frodo shook his head. "And then you had to get it reversed?" 

"They invented that procedure for me!" 

"Just tell me what you did." 

"I bought a house!" Frodo blurted out. 

"You what?" Sam's face turned red. "With what money?" 

"You know that million dollars I inherited from my uncle?" 

"Bilbo?" Frodo nodded. "Frodo, he's not dead. We had lunch with him last Tuesday!" 

"Inherited from, was given by, embezzled with, whatever. The point is, this place is on the market now, Sam. We're having a showing in an hour. And get packed. We're moving on Sunday."

"What? Are you crazy? I like this apartment. We scrimped and saved for months to afford it and now you've suddenly bought a house?" 

"Well, yes. But there is also something else I haven't told you." 

"What, is it on Mars or something?" Sam said sarcastically. He had to work very hard to be sarcastic. It didn't come to him naturally like it did to most other people. 

"Not quite. It's in Nakedwood Creek." 

"So?" 

"Well, it's a gated community." 

"Yeah, sounds nice." 

"A _nudist_ gated community." 

"WHAT!?" 

"Look, the idea just appealed to me for some reason. We never have to wear clothes again!" 

"But, Frodo, I like wearing clothes. I'm very self conscious about my body and I don't want to show it to all of the neighbors." 

"Oh, don't be silly, you've got nothing to be ashamed of." 

"Oh, that's very sweet, Frodo." 

"And now you'll maybe have some motivation to lose that weight I've been nagging you about." 

"Oh! So that is what this all about! You bought a whole house in a nudist colony so that I would lose 15 pounds?" 

"Sam, you need to lose a lot more than 15 pounds. Now let's get packing. We haven't much time." 

"Yeah, whatever." Sam was pissed, but he had learned a long time ago that getting pissed at Frodo really didn't accomplish much. Either he was totally oblivious or just didn't care about how Sam felt.

"Well!" Frodo chimed six weeks later. "Here we are all moved into our new home in scenic Nakedwood Creek!" As you might have assumed, Frodo and Sam were in their large luxurious living room _sans_ clothing or even underthings. "Don't you just feel so free and uninhibited?" 

"No," Sam grumped from the couch where he was drowning his sorrows in a Coors Light. "I hate this house and I'm getting mighty sick of you, truth be told." While Sam was grumbling the doorbell rang. 

"Sam, shush!" Frodo was rushing toward the door, his girlish little bottom bouncing behind him. "Do we want the neighbors to know about our relationship problems?" Sam shrugged. He didn't care. 

Frodo flung the door open. "Hello!" he crowed. "Welcome to the Baggins-Gamgee homestead!" The woman on the other side of the threshold smiled and waved like an idiot. She had the most tomato-like breasts Frodo had ever seen, and barely any areolas at all, (If you must know, one of the main reasons Frodo had wanted to move to Nakedwood was to assess the disrobed conditions of other people's persons.) 

"Hiya!" percolated the cheery brunette. "I'm Celebrian. I'm the president of the welcome committee, and I've come to welcome you to Nakedwood Creek!" 

"We're so delighted to be here! I'm Frodo! Would you like to meet Sam!" There was something intoxicating about the air in Nakedwood, as if one could only manage to speak in exclamation points.

"Hi." Sam said, shuffling over, covering his genitals with his hands. Celebrian held out a hand to shake his. Sam begrudgingly shook her hand and then quickly recovered his naughty area. 

"New to nudism are we?" Celebrian asked. "Well, you'll get used to it. You'll have to." 

"I don't think I ever will," Sam grumbled. 

"Well," Celebrian scolded, "Don't even think of wearing any clothing while you are within Nakedwood Creek. It's against the rules." She giggled like a Japanese schoolgirl as she said this." 

"Rules?" Sam asked. 

"Oh, yes. My husband, Elrond, is in charge of the rules committee. Here is the book of rules." Celebrian handed Sam a velubound volume at least two inches thick. On the neon orange cover Sam spied the words "Nakedwood Creek: The Rules We Live By." 

"Oh, don't worry about us." Frodo chimed in. 

"Well, this rules pamphlet will tell you everything you need to know to live here harmoniously with your neighbors. You live right next to another homosexual couple, Merry and Pippin. What sweethearts. We're going to have to rename this cul de sac Gay Ct." Celebrian was laughing at her clever joke. Sam leered at her. Frodo stood arms akimbo looking pissed. 

"Anyway," Frodo shot. "It was nice of you to stop by. We have to have some raunchy homosexual sex now, so goodbye." He pushed her out the door and slammed it. "Ooh, straight people make me so angry!" 

"Jerks like her make me so angry," Sam said. 

"Ugh, Gay Ct. What an awful name for a street. She is so unfunny." 

"I know, there are so many more clever ways she could have renamed Aspen Circle."

"Like what?" Frodo asked, his arms crossed. "Name me some." 

"I don't know," Sam shrugged, brushing some cat hair off his naked ass. "What do I look like, the head of the street naming committee?" Sam chuckled to himself because he found this remark of his to be quite funny. 

"Maybe you should join that committee," Frodo said sternly, flipping through the rule book. 

"What? Surely such a thing doesn't exist." 

"I'm afraid so," said Frodo. "Oh, this is going to be such fun! I just adore committees!" 

"Frodo, what committees are you involved in outside of this subdevelopment?" 

"Well," Frodo drawled. "There's that little thing I do on Tuesday nights." 

"AA isn't a committee, Frodo." 

"I'm very involved, aren't I?" 

"Yeah, because the court let you off on a plea bargain." 

"That stop sign was rigged!" Frodo snapped.

"Yeah, whatever. You wanna split a bottle of Pinot Grigio?" 

"Yeah, I'll get it," Frodo said as he flounced off toward the kitchen, penis waving in the breeze. Well, not so much breeze as central air. When he returned with the bottle and two slender glasses he almost dropped them. "Sam!" he exclaimed. 

"Yes, Frodo?" 

"You can't wear socks! We'll get fined." 

Sam looked down at his Moosejaw-brand wool socks. "My feet were cold." 

Frodo quickly placed the bottle and glasses on the coffee table and got on the floor. He started tugging at Sam's socks. "You've gotta take these off, before anyone sees." 

"Stop," Sam giggled. "You're tickling me. Who's going to see?" 

"They have ways, Sam. There!" he said, finally removing a sock from Sam's uncooperative foot. 

"Frodo, my feet are cold. Quit it." 

"No! Ah!" Frodo pulled off the second sock. He took them over to the fireplace and threw them in. Unfortunately it did not have the desired effect because the fireplace wasn't even lit. It didn't even get the socks all sooty because no one had yet lit a fire in their brand new fireplace in their brand new living room. 

"What did you do that for?" 

"No clothes, Sam. I'm very serious about this." 

"But, Frodo, what about my ice-cold feet?" 

"We'll just have to turn up the heat." 

"Fine, I'm turning up the thermostat." Sam walked over to the thermostat. Frodo watched his testicles swinging back and forth. They were mesmerizing. 

"Wait! No! Don't touch that thermostat!" 

"Why not? Is that against the rules too?" 

"Actually, yes. This is an ecological nudist gated community after all; if we turn the heat over 69 we get fined." 

"Sixty-nine, eh?" 

"Oh, don't get all Canadian on me," Frodo scolded. 

"Well, I'm freezing, what are we going to do?" 

"I can think of a few ways to warm you up..." Frodo said suggestively.

While Frodo and Sam were doing it, there came another knock on the door. "Blast!" Frodo cried, removing his head from the crook of Sam's neck. "There are not nearly enough minutes in the day!" Frodo got up to go answer the door. Sam crawled underneath a blanket. 

"Hiiiiii!" said the curly-haired little bobbins standing on the other side of the door. He was holding a basket of muffins. "I'm your neighbor, Pippin!" 

"Hi!" Frodo said. "OMG! Celebrian said you were gay!" 

"I totally am!" 

"Thanks for the muffins!" 

"Oh you bet!" Pippin's tanned and oiled little booty slipped in between Frodo and the doorframe and made its way to the kitchen, where Pippin set the muffins down on the countertop. "Is that your partner shivering under a blanket in the living room?" 

"Yeah," Frodo confirmed. "Except we're not partners yet. Only boyfriends. The bastard won't commit. Isn't he sexy?" 

"No," said Pippin honestly. "He's kind of fat. But I'm thinking of getting a sex change. Would sculpted eyebrows look good with this hairdo?" 

Frodo shrugged. "You know how it is with sculpted eyebrows." 

"Too true, too true," Pippin sighed. He pulled out an envelope from ... well, he wasn't wearing any clothing. "This was stuck to your front door." 

"What is it?" Frodo squealed, tearing the envelope open wantonly, little bits of paper flying every which way. 

"It's probably another fine. Nakedwood and the rules committee are very careful about certain little details." Pippin looked up at Frodo, who was reading the letter and scowling. "What's the news, neighbor?"

"Oh god!" Frodo yipped, "It is a fine. Apparently our moving truck left here at 5:02 PM and they were supposed to be out of here before 5. That's a $120 fine!" 

"That seems a little steep." Sam offered from below his blanket. 

"Well, that's the price of living here at the ultra-fab Nakedwood Creek," Pippin said. "I know it's a big pain in the ass, but you'll get used to it in no time. Me and my partner, Merry, hardly ever get fined anymore. 

"Oh, this just makes me so mad!" Frodo was turning beet-red. "Excuse me, Pippin, when I'm mad I need to fuck, and right now, I'm mad." 

"Oh," Pippin politely answered. "Don't mind me. I'm gone. Enjoy the muffins!" Pippin skipped out the front door, his gay little bottom swishing back and forth seductively. 

"Sam, do me. Do me, now!" Frodo said as huskily as he could muster. 

"Yes, sir!" Sam saluted ironically. 

After another marathon sex session Sam instinctively went to put his socks on. 

"Sam! No!" Frodo shouted. "What have I told you about wearing socks?" 

"I'm sorry. I forgot." Sam apologized. 

"I spent almost everything I had to move here. I can't afford to pay any more fines." 

"Then why did you move us to a gated community? They're infamous for their fines." 

"Well, maybe I should've done a little more research. It was just so appealing, I don't know why." 

"This is why I tell you to consult me about major things like buying a house before you jump on the first idea you have." 

"Yeah, I guess you're right. Let's have make-up sex." 

"Okay," Sam agreed.

The next morning, Sam was enjoying one of Pippin's brambleberry crunch muffins on the back patio of the new house. He loved watching the sunrise, and eating, and this morning he was getting to experience both of life's premium joys all in one swift move. Frodo, who was perpetually a late riser, bumbled out of the kitchen rubbing his eyes. "Hola," he said sleepily. "What time is it?" 

"About 7:19 and 29 seconds." 

"Uh," Frodo grunted. "And what are you doing up so early?" 

"Watching the sunrise?" Sam took this opportunity to shove a hearty chunk of muffin into his flapping maw. 

"Oh my god!" Frodo was nearly having a heart attack. "Are you eating on the patio?" 

"Duh," Sam rumbled through a particularly chunky hunk of muffin. (Pippin was not a very good cook.) He swallowed (something he usually never did -- burn!) and said, "I'm just enjoying the beautiful morning and this mediocre muffin your friend brought over." 

"Ugh, he's not my friend. Well, anyway, last night after you fell asleep immediately after we made love, I stayed up until 11:30 reading the rule book." 

"Did you get a kick out of it?" 

"No! In fact, I now know that you are breaking about 28 separate rules as we speak!" 

"You're more yelling than speaking. Name one." 

"No socks and shoes!" Frodo crowed. 

"Surely that can't be against the rules. I'm outside! Who walks around barefoot out of doors?" 

"Well, as of right this second, not Sam Gamgee. Furthermore, you're getting crumbs all over the patio." 

"I'm allowed to eat on my own patio!" 

"Not if you don't clean up after yourself. Attracting a raccoon is a $40 fine. Bear removal is $360!"

"Fine, I'll clean up after myself," Sam insisted. 

"Look, I'm going to go get the dustbuster." Frodo said, as he returned to the house. 

Sam stretched out, crumbling the rest of the muffin all over the patio just to spite Frodo. Frodo scampered out and vacuumed up the crumbs. 

Sam went to the front door to retrieve The New York Times, which he was ready to read. Attached to The New York Times' blue bag was another envelope. Inside was a note: 

"$25 Fine for not retrieving newspaper fast enough," it read. It was signed "Elrond Halfelven, Rules Committee." 

"Jesus Christ!" Frodo shouted from behind him, where he had snuck. "Not another fine!" 

"Look, this is getting a little ridiculous," Sam said. 

"What did you do this time?" 

"Not bring in my newspaper fast enough," Sam replied. 

"How much?" 

"$25. Look I'm going to go over and have a talk with this Elrond character. If we want to live in peace in this awful community some sort of accord will have to be reached." 

"Oh, Sam, you're just like Bill Clinton, making accords everywhere." 

"Yeah." 

"Hey, can we role-play before you go? You be Bill Clinton and I'll be a naughty intern." 

"Okay, but let's make it quick. I really want to give Elrond a piece of my mind."

Sam trudged up to the front door of the Halfelven household. Sam didn't really know where it was, so he wandered around the cul-de-sacs of Pinecrest Commons for a few hours. Then he found his way to the guardhouse and got a map. Elrond and his blushing bride, Celebrian, lived at 3940 Prudent Investiture Drive. However, despite being called a "drive," Prudent Investiture was also a cul-de-sac. 

Making one last check to ensure that his gentials looked their freshest, Sam pounded on the door. A fizzy lady with tomato-like breasts opened the door. "Hello!" The lady cocked her head confusedly. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "You're that homosexual! One of them, anyway." 

"My name is Sam Gamgee," said Sam. "I'm here to discuss—" 

"Oh, where are my manners? I'm Celebrian. Welcome to our home! Would you like to come in for some Tang and Roofies? I mean, Jell-o parfaits?" 

"Uh," said Sam uneasily. He loved food. "Sure." Sam warily stepped over the threshold and into the foyer, which looked like it was straight out of the Horchow catalog. 

"Please, have a seat in the parlor." Celebrian indicated a large room with many prominent windows to the left of the foyer. Sam carefully sat down on an overstuffed couch in a sunshine-y yellow fabric, trimmed in cherrywood. "This couldn't be a better time for me, because 3 p.m. is right after I finish my ride on the exercycle, and right before I begin a long, luxuriant sauna." 

"Honestly, I'm here to speak with your husband." 

"Rondy?" Sam nodded. "Oh, all right. I'll go get him. Wait here. Don't _touch_ anything." Celebrian popped up and bounced out of the room. Sam thought to himself that she seemed a lot like Frodo, or at least Frodo when he had been heavily drinking.

Sam waited a while. The moaning sounds coming from the next room told him that it would be a while more. What was with these nudists? He took it upon himself to rub his butt all over as much furniture as he could while he waited. 

Finally Elrond, or Rondy as he apparently liked to be called, came out. His manhood was quite impressive, which Sam could not help but noting. "Yes?" Elrond said, looking a little bit irritated. 

"Well, I just wanted to come and tell you that I don't appreciate all of these fines. I mean, some of them are just creepy. Like, why does a condom count as clothes? And how do you know if I used a condom?" 

"There, you just admitted it. There's no way you're getting out of that fine now." 

"Wait, what? This is ridiculous. I should be allowed to put on whatever I want. You telling me that I can't wear anything is as oppressive as the rest of the world telling you you should wear clothes!" 

"Look, Pam, or Sam, or whatever you call yourself these days. I don't know what nudist planned communities you lived in before you moved here, but things here in Nakedwood Creek are a little bit different. We like rules here. Yes, we may be nudists, but that doesn't mean that we're not obsessive-compulsive." 

"Oh, you are so irritating!" Sam shouted, spittle flying into the air. 

"Look, at least we allow your _kind_ here." 

"What is _that_ supposed to mean?" Sam asked, clearly becoming irritated. 

"You know, fat people. Frankly, it's just unpleasant to look at." 

"How dare you!"

Frodo was in the kitchen doing what he did best: making alcoholic drinks and then consuming him. He heard the door slam, and he would have heard the sound of loafers slamming into the wood floors if shoes were allowed at Nakedwood Creek, but they weren't so he didn't. 

"No good rotten-ass Elrond," someone was mumbling. "Thinks I'm too fat for his elite perfect neighborhood. I'll show him who's gay, me, that's who. Also angry. Kill everyone, revenge soon..." 

"Sweetie?" Frodo asked, peeking his head out of the kitchen. "Is everything okay?" 

"No," Sam sneered, putting his big fat bottom on the good couch. "Everything is _not_ okay." 

"Well, did you talk to Elrond?" Sam nodded. "What did he say? Will he waive our improper-mattress-disposal fee?" 

"No," Sam said again. "But it's cool, I told him off." 

"Oh, no," Frodo groaned. "Listen, big guy, I really like it here. So don't go fucking it up!" 

"Please, Frodo, a little trust in my ability to judge which situations are screamable would be nice." 

"Remember that time you flashed the man at the cock fight because he called you 'chiquita'? I think he was a Mexican day laborer. Thank God we moved here and got away from all of them! Constantly leering at me ... with their eyes..." Frodo trailed off. Sam cleared his throat. 

"Frodo, that was you." 

"Well, my point still stands. Be nice to these people! You don't want to get a rudeness fine." 

"When I'm head of the rules committee, there won't be any rudeness fine!" 

"Sam!" Frodo gasped. "What are you suggesting?" 

"Fro, I'm sick of being the little guy. I want to be the big guy." 

"You're already the big guy around here, Sam." 

Sam cocked an eyebrow. "Was that an innuendo, or a fat joke?" 

"Eh." Frodo shrugged. "Anyway, please, just back off." 

"No! I will not back off from this!" 

"Just think about it overnight!" Frodo pleaded, missing his bloody mary. 

"Too late," Sam harbinged. "I already registered down at the clubhouse." 

"Oh no," Frodo groaned. 

"Oh yes!"

Fortunately for Sam, and unfortunately for Frodo, the elections for head of the rules committee were only a few weeks away. Sam had just made the deadline when he angrily stormed into the clubhouse demanding to be placed on the ballot. Now came the hard part: campaigning. Frodo and Sam weren't exactly the most popular couple in Nakedwood Creek. First of all, they were a gay couple, which the surprisingly conservative populous of the premiere nudist community in Colorado had trouble looking past. Secondly, Sam's frequent run-ins with the rules committee didn't really gain him any popularity points. Frodo did his best to campaign for Sam. He was very upset when he realized he couldn't campaign in his new Chanel suit. 

"Why did you even buy that thing?" Sam asked incredulously. 

"Look, if I'm going to be the president's wife, I have to look the part." 

"But you're the one who moved us to this nudist colony!" 

"Community, Sam. We're a community." 

"Well, you can't wear it. If we get any more fines we're going to have to start using high-efficiency lightbulbs instead of these incandescents that you love so much." 

"Heavens no! Our financial situation isn't that dire is it?" 

"I'm afraid so, Frodo. I really need to win this thing so that we don't have to pay any more fines. We were stretched too thin when you bought this place, and you buying fancy women's suits that you can't even wear isn't helping things." 

"Do you want me to try and get some more money from dear Uncle Bilbo?" 

"No, not yet. Just don't wear that suit." 

"Can I at least wear the matching pillbox hat?" 

"I don't know, look it up in the rules." Sam passed over the four volume set labeled "The Rules We Live By." He had been trying to bone up on the rules to impress his neighbors and avoid breaking them. 

Frodo looked in the index under pillbox and not finding anything looked under hats. Sure enough they were allowed. Frodo placed the pink hat on his head, put on some giant sunglasses and announced, "Okay, Sam. Let's hit the campaign trail!

The week before election day, the latest issue of the Nakedwood Creek community newsletter, The Bare Essentials, hit newsstands — that is, it was carefully placed, one per household, in each mailbox. The morning the weekly newsletter arrived was usually no different than any other for Frodo and Sam. Today, however, there was an enormous headline that read: ELROND IMPROPERLY SKIMS POOL — MISSES A LEAF. 

"Gosh," said Sam, absent-mindedly rubbing his scrotum, something he did all the time now that he was constantly in the buff. "Do you think this might help my campaign?" Frodo, who was busily licking strawberry juice off of his fingers, shrugged. That afternoon, a woman came up to Sam in the rec center and told him he had her vote. 

"I couldn't vote for that unbearable Elrond," she explained. "I don't know if I want a man who can't take care of his pool taking care of my safety via the rules committee." Sam found this a little ridiculous, but never one to laugh in the face of good luck, he thanked his supporter graciously and took his leave. (Sam also didn't comment on the fact that he found pool cleaning to be far from an issue of personal safety, as indeed many of Nakedwood Creek's rules were.) 

The next morning, Sam ran into a friend from pilates class — Frodo's pilates class, that is — who told him that he had her vote, too. "That awful blind item!" she said. "It must be true. It would be nearly slanderous to publish such a thing otherwise, even without a name properly attached." 

Sam stormed back into the house and picked up yesterday morning's newsletter. He turned to page nine — the gossip column. "Ears are ringing," went the item, "that a certain soon-to-be-former head of the rules committee beats his wife, has sex with dogs, rapes babies, eats veal, and is a registered democrat." Sam winced at the lack of AP style and bad capitalization, but marched in to where Frodo was lazing on the couch, watching Oprah. 

"Frodo?" he asked. 

"Yeeeeeeees, my love?" Frodo asked, rolling over carefully so as not to crush his balls under a cushion or thigh. 

"Do you know anything about this?" Sam dropped the newsletter into Frodo's exposed lap. 

"Ohhhhhh," Frodo said with heaving recognition. "Oh, ohhhh, _that_." 

"Yes, that. Do you have something to do with that?" 

"Well, I must tell you, my dearest love, I neither wrote not championed those sinful pieces." Sam stood stony-faced, arms crossed, foot tapping the awful rug and making no noise at all, but Frodo could still spot Sam's leg fat undulating with the vibratory slap-slap of the foot on the floor. "But Pippin is the editor of the newsletter," Frodo added quickly. "So, read any good books lately?" 

"Frodo!" Sam exclaimed, smacking his forehead. "This isn't okay! These are lies!" 

"But they're lies that will get you elected, Sam," Frodo explained, secretly wishing he were wearing his pillbox hat. "And you'll do a better job than that meanie. So in the end, aren't they really the truth?" 

"No!" 

"Oh. Well, you can either go around telling everyone that someone's been printing pro-Gamgee lies, or you can sit back and enjoy the ride. What do you say, Sam?"

"Well, I guess it's too late to come clean without doing significant damage to my campaign. But I don't want anymore of these lies, Frodo. You tell your friend Pippin that I don't need his help. I can win this campaign on the merits of my platform!" 

"What is your platform?" Frodo asked, genuinely curious. 

"I don't really have one other than I'm less uptight than Elrond." 

"Don't tell anyone that. Everybody thinks you're even more uptight than that asshole and that's why they're voting for you." 

"No, they're voting for me because you've horribly slandered poor Elrond." 

"Poor Elrond? He called you fat! That is unforgivable." 

"Frodo, you call me fat all the time." 

"That's different. When I do it's cute." 

"No it's not. It really hurts my feelings when you call me fat." 

"We're not talking about this anymore." Frodo stormed off with the newsletter to do the crossword. 

As the election neared things became very tense in the Baggins-Gamgee household. Sam was obsessively tending to things around the house lest some minor rule be broken. Frodo busied himself by shopping for pillbox hats online, much to Sam's annoyance.

Merry and Pippin were over one night for a dinner party Frodo was having catered by Panera Bread. He told them he was too busy with campaign business to cook a real meal, but the truth was he was a lousy cook and the extent of his cooking skills was ramen noodles and toast. Sam would normally have cooked, but he was afraid to turn on the exhaust fan in case someone called in a noise complaint. Things were very tense at dinner, especially because Pippin had just gotten his nipples pierced and would not shut up about it.

"It was so painful!" Pippin cooed, sashaying his manly bosoms to-and-fro at the dinner table. 

"And there was so much blood," Merry added, eyes glazing over as he stared at Sam lustfully over Frodo's delicious lemon Jell-o and crab chiffon salad. 

"Yes," Pippin echoed. "So, so much." Pippin shoveled a heaping forkful of salad into his mouth. "So much." He said again. 

"Uh huh," said Sam, duly unimpressed. He didn't like Pippin very much, and he was fairly disconcerted by Merry's untoward advances, which were frequent and clumsy. One of them even violated a community rule, no flirting within 15 feet of children and 75 feet of the boathouse. Of course, this had been before Sam was in the running for any important community positions. He and Merry had even split the fine, $87.50 each. 

"I'm so nervous about this election tomorrow," Frodo said drearily, shooting Merry a dirty look. "We need to get to the polling place extra early so that we can have a picture of my voting appear in the special-addition Bare Essentials," which Nakedwood Creek residents uniformly called "the B-Ess." 

"Where's the polling place?" Pippin asked, absent-mindedly playing with his infected nipple piercing. 

"The clubhouse lobby," Merry answered, giving Sam a sly tilted-head nod. Sam shuddered in disgust. Merry felt very authoritative on this issue, because he was an underling in the election administration office, which was located in the spare room over committee chairman Tom Bombadil's garage. "The polls open at 6:30 on the dot. We'll have bagels and orange juice for the first 20 voters!" 

"Free bagels?" Sam asked, perking up. Truth be told, his and Frodo's monetary hardships were beginning to creep up on him. Just today he'd had to pay for his new toaster (Frodo had put eggs in it again) on layaway. Layaway! He felt so ashamed.

Meanwhile, on the other side of Nakedwood Creek Elrond was busying himself looking out his bathroom window with his binoculars, trying to find wrong-doers. His eyes passed over Kathy Murgensen cutting her grass 3.5 inches rather than the preferred three inches, and good old Boromir walking from the pool to his house without donning the proper cover-up. None of this interested him. His gaze was directed at the Baggins-Gamgee residence, where he was greeted by the site of their gardener Jose's perky bottom as he bent over to tend to the azaleas. "There's got to be something they're doing wrong I can get them for," he grumbled to himself. 

Unfortunately, there wasn't. Everything about the house was absolutely perfect. Elrond couldn't believe that anyone could be as anal about the rules as he was. He grunted in dissaproval. Celebrian got up off of her knees. "Am I doing it wrong or something?" 

"No, it's not you, dear. It's those damn Bamgee-Gamginses." 

"That's not their name," Celebrian huffed. 

"Just get back down there." 

Election day was upon Nakedwood Creek. The air was filled with a tension that was almost indescribable. "Oh, Sam!" Frodo imparted, "I just know you're going to win. That smear campaign we launched has been so uber-successful, it can't fail." 

"Frodo, it's very important that we not count our hitchens before they catch," Sam said. 

"Excuse me?" 

"I'm sorry, Fro. I get dyslexic when I'm nervous." 

"That's kind of cute, I guess. But how are you going to give that speech in the rec center today if you mess up all the words?" 

"That's a know question, Dorfo. I don't good what I'm going to do." 

"Well, you can do what I did to win the Nakedwood Creek talent show and secretly lip sync," offered Frodo. 

"Shhh! If anyfind ones you did that I'll lose the campaign." 

"Oh, no one will ever know. I am a really good lip syncer. I could teach you if I want." 

"No, Frodo. They're just going to haccept to ave me the way I am." 

"You sound like a retard." 

"I thought you said it was cute me kind of." 

"Well, I lied. You might as well cancel the speech." 

"But the closelection so lect, I mean, so close," Sam managed to blurt out. 

"You can barely talk!"

That afternoon, practically all of Nakedwood Creek was huddled in the rec center. The president of the entire community, Galadriel, was at the podium. She wasn't just the president of the community — she was also Celebrian's mother and, therefore, Elrond's mother-in-law. 

"Good afternoon, Nakedwood Creekers!" she announced cheerily. She was an ethereal-looking woman of about 59. "This has been a very tense election, hasn't it? I just want to give both of our candidates a round of applause." When she clapped harmoniously, her aged bosoms jiggled slightly in a sad rhythm. "Okay, now it's time to get down to business. All the votes have been tabulated and the president of the rules committee of Nakedwood Creek is ... oh, my, I'm getting so nervous. Gimli, may I have a drumroll, please?" 

"Sam!" Frodo whispered, grabbing his beloved's hand. "I just want you to know that whatever happens, I still love you." 

"And the winner is ... Elrond!" The entire room cheered. Elrond walked up to the podium, clapping himself all the way. 

"Aw, thanks, everyone. Thanks, Mom. And special thanks to my little lady, Celebrian. I couldn't have done it without you, baby." In the audience, Celebrian blushed. "Now, for my first order of business as six-time head of the rule committee." He cleared his throat. "Guards!" 

Two burly men not wearing clothing but adorned with caps and batons marched in and grabbed Frodo and Sam by their armpits. 

"Sam!" Frodo shrieked. "Don't let them manhandle me ... for too long!" 

"Oh, Jesus," Sam sighed, his head hung low. 

"We won't have to deal with them ever again, folks — they're going to prison!" Elrond beamed. 

THE END


	13. California

As the cab zoomed away, Frodo-Anne Baggins waved to the driver with his crisp, white hankie. People were so much nicer in the big city than he thought they'd be! As he dragged his luggage toward the steps of the converted San Francisco Victorian where he was about to begin his new life, he thought about everything he'd lift behind; he was really going to miss Connie, Teeny, and Laura, his girlfriends back at Pan Am. But he wasn't going to miss St. Louis, and even though he was sad to say goodbye to his friends, he wasn't going to miss his hectic stewardess life. Tomorrow, he would begin the search for a job. 

Standing on the front porch, Frodo rang the buzzer. A tall woman wearing a sort of hippie dress answered; it was mint green, had bell sleeves, and was made of velvet or — Frodo shuddered — velveteen. "Greetings," said the landlady. "I'm Arwen Evenstar." 

"How do you do, Miss Evenstar?" 

"Actually, it's Mrs. Evenstar. But you can call me Arwen." 

"Well, Arwen, how's Mr. Evenstar?" 

"There is no Mr. Evenstar," Arwen said saucily. "Not anymore." 

"Oh?" said Frodo, but she didn't tell him any more. 

X 

"Let me show you around the house," Arwen offered after Frodo had put his many bags away. "You're in 1A. In 1B is your next door neighbor, Meriadoc Brandybuck. Upstairs are Fred Burrows and Sam Gamgee. I live on the top floor." 

"How come you rent all of your rooms to men?" Frodo asked. 

"Well, I don't," Arwen answered. "Now that you're here. 

"Yeah, about that," Frodo mustered, beginning to sweat. 

"Well, I have to be going. Things to do! People to see!" And then she was gone. 

Just then Frodo heard a loud racket from upstairs. A door slammed and a high pitched voice screamed, "Fred Burrows, you've screwed me for the last time!" 

A deep, slow voice replied, "Pippin, come back inside the room. You're creating a scene." 

"I know you're cheating on me with that Trixie Malloy," Pippin snortled. 

Fred retorted, "She's my best friend. We're not sleeping together." 

"Look, she's like the town slut," Pippin screamed. "Everybody sleeps with her! She's got those feminine wiles." 

"You know I don't go for that stuff." 

"Look, if you want to stay with me you're going to have to never see Trixie again." 

Frodo heard the door slam. A curly haired fellow ran down the stairs in tears and out the door. Frodo tried to offer him his white hankie, but it was to no avail. Pippin had already left the building. 

X 

The next morning, Frodo set out to find a job. First, he had a healthy bowl of granola with Mrs. Evenstar for breakfast. When she handed him his cereal bowl, Frodo noticed there was a big joint sitting on top of his granola. "What is this?" Frodo asked, sniffing it. 

"Consider it my welcome basket." 

"But it's not in a basket. It's in rolling papers." 

"Yeah, whatever," Arwen sassed. "Takes one to know one. Now get the hell out of my boudouir!" Frodo began to laugh, but then she cocked her shotgun and glared at him. Frodo stopped laughing, put his doobie in his pocketbook, and skeedaddled. 

X 

Frodo was coming downstairs when he saw a man with straw-colored, longish locks coming out of the apartment across the hallway from his. "Hello there!" Frodo cried, waving his hankie. "I'm Frodo!" 

"The name's Merry," said Merry, as he locked his door with a key that was on a keychain that said "MERRY" in huge block letters. "You must be new." 

"Yes, yes I am!" Frodo blushed. "Mrs. Evenstar told me about you." 

"What did she say?" 

"That you existed." 

"I sure do." There was a moment of awkward silence. 

"So, where have you moved from? Are you a local?" 

"No, I just blew in from St. Louis. I came for a week-long vacation and after a day I called up my Uncle Bilbo and said, 'Uncle Bilbo, I'm moving to San Francisco.' And he said, 'No you're not.' And I said, 'Fine, then wire me some more money.' And he did, and I haven't spoken to him since." 

"Great," Merry yawned. "Have you got a job?" 

"No, but I'm looking for one." 

"Well, I think I might be able to help you out." 

"Really? I would love some help!" Frodo slack-jawed. 

"Well, you see..." 

"What? Tell me!" 

"I run this sort of 'escort' service. We're always looking for new pieces of meat, I mean … personnel." 

"What do you mean by escort?" 

"Well, you know ... you'd be a hooker!" 

"You mean, a lady of the night?" 

"No, a whore." 

"Well, I guess it's a step up from a Pan-Am stewardess..." 

"You can say that again!" 

"I'll have to think about it, but thanks." Frodo turned around and fled the scene, scampering down the street like a Pomeranian on steroids. Thirteen blocks later, Frodo bumped into a tall dark man in a floor length leather jacket. "Oh, I'm sorry," Frodo apologized. 

"No problem. Want some heroin?" the man asked. 

"AH!" Frodo screeched. He turned around and fled. The city was such a big scary place. Frodo ran until he found a temp agency: Grima Womtongue's Bait, Tackle, and Temp Agency. Frodo went in, and 40 minutes later he had a job, working for Gondor, Gondor, and Macdougal, a prestigious law firm downtown in the TransAmerica Pyramid. Frodo had no idea where that was, so he had the temp agent drew him a poorly articulated map on the back of a cocktail napkin. 

X 

Back at the house, Frodo ran into Merry again. "Great news, you crazy pimp!" he said heartily. "I've got a job." 

"Doing what?" 

"I'm going to be a secretary at a law firm. Finally, I'm really living the sexy singles life in San Fran!" 

"Well, word to the wise, Mary Jane McLame, but no one here calls it 'San Fran.' Never call it that again." 

"Sorry." 

"It's no problem. So, what's a hot babe like you doing without a date on a Tuesday night like tonight?" 

"I don't know," Frodo confessed. 

"Well, let's go hit up the grocery store. That's where I met my last three hookups." 

"Was one of them Trixie Malloy?" 

"How do you know Trixie?" 

"A girl picks things up in the city." 

Frodo was proud of himself. He had managed to get a job and impress his neighbor with his knowledge of the local sluts. He scurried to his room where he hurriedly shut the door. He collapsed on his bed in tears. Then Frodo remembered that he wasn't currently unhappy about anything, so he dabbed at his eyes with his kerchief and picked up his purse off the floor. 

Inside he found his bright red lipstick. He applied it to his lips, then rubbed some on his finger and used it as blush. He picked his perfume off of the vanity and started dousing himself in it. 

Frodo had decided he was going to go out and try to pick up men at one of the local saloons. Suddenly there was a knock at the door. Frodo heard wheezing and coughing on the other side. He slowly opened the creaky door. 

"Who are you?" Frodo warbled. 

"Cough. I'm Sam, your upstairs neighbor. Cough. Cough." 

"Oh, Mr. Gamgee, what a pleasure it is to meet you! Are you all right?" 

"No. I'm not all right. My room is right above yours and we share an air vent." A loud sneeze erupted from his nose. "And I think I'm allergic to your perfume." 

"What? This one?" Frodo said as he playfully spritzed Sam's face with the perfume. 

"Stop it!" Sam eeked out of his rapidly closing throat. Hives began to appear on his face. 

"Oh, dear!" Frodo itsy-bitsied. "You must be allergic to something, because you're breaking out in hives!" 

"Yes, I'm allergic to your perfume," Sam choked out as his throat closed up. 

"I wonder if the pollen count is high today," Frodo verbally contemplated. 

"Perfume!" Sam tried to cry, but he was now turning blue so it just kind of got squeezed out as "Er-foom!" 

"I've never been inside a court room," Frodo said. "And anyway, I doubt there's anything I can do for you." He shoved Sam out of his apartment and slammed the door. Sam began to bang on the door furiously, screaming things in another language, or at least they might have been because they were terribly garbled. "What a nice man," Frodo shouted. The knocking went silent, and then Frodo realized what he could do to help his neighbor and reopened the door. To his elation and relief, Sam was crumpled up in a pile in the hallway. 

"I tell you what," Frodo said to Sam's almost-corpse. "I don't know what's causing your allergies to get all a-fuss, but if you back to your apartment like a good boy and get in bed, I'll bring you come chicken soup in the morning." 

"Nobody eats chicken soup for breakfast," Sam's cadaver-thing croaked. 

"They sure do. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a date with ... well, I'm going to a bar, where I hope to find a date. Feel better!" Frodo slammed the door conclusively this time. 

X 

A few weeks later, Frodo was strolling down Castro Street with his head held high when he bumped into Sam again. "Sam! My neighbor!" Frodo exclaimed vapidly. 

"Oh, it's you," Sam said as he took a few steps backwards. 

"What, no hug? No kiss?" Frodo disappointedly inquired. 

"Remember? I'm fatally allergic to your cologne." 

"Per-fume, Sam. It was perfume. And I'm not wearing that particular perfume today. You'll learn this, Sammy-boy, but I go through perfume like I go through men." 

"Um, I don't think I understand..." 

"It's not important. Now, what brings you to this part of town?" 

"Oh, nothing. I wanted to buy my mom one of those glass paperweight thingies for her birthday. None of the stores here seem to sell them, though." 

"Oh, how disappointing for you. Walk with me, dear." 

"Okay. So, Are you liking San Fransisco, Frodette?" They started to walk down Castro street together. 

"Fro-do. It's Frodo, not Frodette." 

"I'm sorry. Arwen told me it was Frodette." 

"Well, she's a little bit batty." 

"Yes, she sure is. I told her to see my therapist, Dr. Bill Ferny, but she would have none of that." 

"Oh, you see a therapist?" Frodo intruded. "That's so hip now. Therapy is like the new..." He thought for a moment. "...marijuana." 

"For you information, yes, I do see a therapist." 

"What for?" Frodo wanted to know. "Daddy issues? Mommy issues? Anger-management issues?" 

"Um..." 

"Some sort of issues? It's issues, isn't it?" 

"I guess you could say that." 

"Well, I think you're perfectly normal." 

"Oh, that's saying a lot," Sam sussed. 

"What could you ever mean by that?" Frodo asked daintily, touching his kerchief to his mouth in shock. 

"Oh, please. You're a man." 

"How dare you!" Frodo fake-was-insulted. "Just because I have broad shoulders..." 

"Look, Miss Mary Male, I know a thing or two." 

"And why would that be?" 

"There's only two types of guys who hang out in this 'hood: Women like you, who are actually guys, and guys like me, who like women like you who are actually guys." 

"Which kind of guy is Fred Burrows?" 

"The former." 

"And Merry?" 

"He's the kind who likes women who are actually women, but he probably likes you because he likes women so much he just assumes you're a woman. You get me?" 

"Yes, I get you ... into bed!" Sam was just disgusted. 

"No, you haven't. What makes you think I would want to sleep with you?" 

"But you just said..." 

"Look, I just said I liked men who dress like women, not you specifically." 

"Do you like me?" 

"Well, yes. But that's beside the point." 

"No it's not." 

"You're right. You wanna go to my room or yours?" 

"Mine. No, yours. I can never make my mind up." 

"It's true. You can't. Let's go to my room, I've got a water bed." 

"Really? That's so cool." 

"No, it's a straw filled twin mattress, just like yours." 

"Oh goody!" 

X 

"Oh, boy," Frodo sighed, inhaling gracefully on his post-coital cigarette. "That was really something. Was it good for you?" 

"Moderately," Sam shrugged. "I was sort of expecting you to do something other than just lie there." 

"Look, I can't be expected to get giddy with enthusiasm for every single lay," Frodo quipped. "I mean, a girl gets tired as the day goes on." 

"Okay, you're not a girl." 

"I'm a girl with a penis." 

"Closer, but still incorrect. B-O-Y, boy. You are a boy, Frodon." 

"It's Frodo." 

"Yeah, I guess Frodon is a kind of dinosuar. Anyway, get out." 

"What?!" Frodo almost inhaled his cig. "Aren't you going to sing me soothing melodies, and pet my hair?" 

"Absolutely not. For one thing, your hair is a wig. For another thing, I can't stand you." 

"But I thought you said you liked me!" Frodo whined. 

"Yeah, I like your sex. I hate your personality. Now, scoot. I'm late for my 3 p.m." 

"You're having sex again?" 

"No, I have to go to the dentist. Where are you going? I need to specifically make sure it's not in the same direction so we don't walk together." 

"I guess I'll go to the baths or something, I don't know." 

"What is it with you?" 

"Look, Sammy Miami, I told you: I have a lot of sex. I'm trying to beat my own personal record, which is six in one day." 

"Which am I?" 

"Right now, you're four. I'd stop at four if you'd just pet my hair like I always wanted." 

"Look, I'm not petting any hair." Sam picked up Frodo's nylons from behind his head and tossed them at his erstwhile mate. "Now scram. You're making me nauseous." 

"Nauseated. I'm nauseating you." 

"Just go!" 

X 

Weeks later Frodo was trying to get his brand new slinky to work on the stairs when Sam almost tripped over him. 

"Oh, you're still here?" Sam asked, a bit crudely. 

"Yes. I live here now. Just like you." 

"What, are you stalking me now that we slept together?" 

"Sam, I lived here before we slept together." 

"Oh, I didn't notice." 

"What are you, retarded?" 

"You're the one who can't get a slinky to work," Sam uttered as he gave the slinky a gentle nudge with his foot. It cascaded down the stairs perfectly. 

"Harrumph!" Frodo harrumphed as he crossed his arms gingerly. 

"Look, Frondine, I gotta get to work. If you'll just move so I can get down the stairs..." 

"You broke my heart, Samwise," Frodo cried dramatically. 

"Whatever, I'm out of here. Ciao." Sam stepped over Frodo like he was a dog turd on the sidewalk. 

"Bye, sweetums!" Frodo shouted after him ironically. 

After Sam had left, Frodo burst into tears. He was sitting in the hall sobbing when he heard the door open downstairs. "Hello?" called a friendly voice. Frodo didn't want to talk to anyone, so he began to cry louder. Merry walked up the stairs. "Hey, Frodo," he said softly. "What's the matter?" 

"It's Sam!" Frodo wept, wiping his mascara-runny eyes on Merry's hot flannel. Even through his tears, Frodo thought Merry was sort of a babe. "He hates me!"  
"I don't think he hates you." 

"Have you ever been around both of us at the same time?" 

"Well, no." 

"Then how the hell would you know?" 

"I guess I wouldn't." 

"Damn right you wouldn't," Frodo sniffed. 

"Why don't you tell me all about it," Merry said comfortingly, petting Frodo's hair. Frodo smiled for a moment, but then he got sad again as he started to talk about his pain. 

"Oh, we slept together," Frodo moaned. "I thought he loved me. Oh, how could I have been so naive!" 

"You slept with Sam?" Frodo nodded. "Listen, Frodo, I don't mean to get you upset, but..." Merry looked around to make sure Frodo and he were alone. When the coast was clear, Merry leaned in and whispered: "I don't mean to get you upset, but Sam is one of those homosexuals." 

"Yeah," Frodo sighed. 

"You knew?" 

"What? Oh, um. No! No, I am outraged. How dare that homosexual sleep with me! I'm just a girl, not yet a woman, and he took advantage of my naivety!" 

"Naïveté." 

"Yeah, whatev. What a douche." 

"Why don't I take you out tonight and you can tell me all about it." 

"I thought I already had." 

"Well, then I'll just take you out. Deal?" 

"Yeah!" 

Later that evening Merry and Frodo were busily chewing on chewing gum as they walked away from their delicious dinner at Chez Pomodoro. "That was delicious!" Frodo sing-songed, mashing his gum loudly. 

"I know, and this gum is out of this world." Merry answered slyly. 

"Isn't peach flavor just delicious? I love all these Asian groceries. They have such interesting food. And such great coffee drinks." Frodo winked as he took another sip of his Men's Latte. 

"So, you want to come up to my room for coffee?" 

"I'm drinking coffee right now." 

"Oh." 

"But I'll come up to your room anyway." 

"Great!" 

X 

Up in Merry's room, Frodo admired Merry's far-out plastic chairs. "They're cold to the touch and you stick to them!" Merry enthused. "Who could want anything more from a chair?" 

"Not me," Frodo said coyly, slipping his robin's egg blue cardigan off of his shoulder to reveal a very slammin' mock turtle-neck, champagne-colored satin jumpsuit with no sleeves. 

"I am so glad you came up," Merry slurred, taking another sip on his Harvey Wallbanger. Frodo smiled and inched away from his date; his date inched closer. "I'm really glad we're getting to know each other better, too." Merry began to reach in for the delicate petals of Frodo's womanly blossom, which unbeknownst to Merry actually didn't exist, prompting Frodo to say the following: 

"Hold on, Merry," Frodo said, standing up suddenly. "There's something you need to know." 

"If by 'something' you mean 'someone' and that someone is you, and you also mean 'know' in the Biblical sense then yeah, I totally got to know something," Merry power-sanded. 

"Well, I agree, we should have sex. But first you have got to know this academic fact." Frodo cleared his throat and adjusted the tissue paper that was spilling out of his bra. "I'm a man."


End file.
